/i/J^t 



ESSAYS, 



5 



<0 



SKETCHES, AND STORIES, 



SELECTED FROM THE WRITINGS 



OP 



GEORGE BRYANT WOODS. 



WitI) a ^iogragI)ical JEemou, 





BOSTON: 

JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 

Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. 

1873. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, 

BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., 

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



University Press: Welch, Bigelow, & Co., 
Cambridge. 



NOTE BY THE EDITOR. 



TT is believed that the selections of which this 
-^ volume is composed will be interesting to Mr. 
Woods's friends and acceptable to the general public; 
but it is felt to be doubtful whether this book or any 
which might be similarly made up could convey a 
just idea of the peculiar penetration and discrimina- 
tion which characterized Mr, Woods's editorial work, 
and which gained for him his high position as a 
journalist. Much of the best writing which is done 
upon newspapers is ephemeral, both by reason of its 
subjects and of the methods of treatment employed, 
but none the less is its merit unquestionable and its 
value substantial. The very fact that many of Mr. 
Woods's leaders did their work, and did it well, 
makes their insertion in these pages impossible ; for 
the emergency which created them has happened, 
has been met, and is now completely forgotten. 
Newspaper criticisms, also, of plays as they are per- 
formed in a great city, and of the lighter novels and 



iv NOTE BY THE EDITOR. 

poems of tlie day, — no matter how excellent in- 
trinsically, or liow valuable in their time to the com- 
mnnity, — can seldom find a proper place in a 
printed book. Under the pressure of this necessity, 
much of the best of Mr. Woods's work has been 
omitted from this volume ; but care has been taken 
that specimens of all the different forms of his 
literary labor should be presented, in order that the 
reader might see the versatile vigor of a man who 
was an original and effective essayist, a sound and 
brilliant critic, a clever and graceful story-teller, and 
a master correspondent. 

The set of sketches contributed to '' Every Satur- 
day " under the heading of " Town Talk " — of which 
both the idea and the title were originally suggested 
by Mr. Woods — has been deemed sufficiently 
characteristic to be reprinted entire. 

The editor of this volume ventures from the 
routine of his duty to ask the special attention of 
readers to the essays entitled " How Old was Ham- 
let ? " and " The Time of Hamlet." Hebelieves that 
the clearness of vision and closeness of observation 
exhibited in these articles are remarkable ; and he 
thinks it an extraordinary circumstance that it was 
reserved for so young a critic as Mr. Woods to dis- 
cover from Shakespeare's own text a plain answer to 



NOTE BY THE EDITOR. V 

certain vexed questions, which does not seem to have 
occurred to the most eminent commentators. 

A complete list of the newspapers and periodicals 
to which Mr. Woods at any time contributed is as 
follows: — The "Barre Gazette/' the "Household 
Monthly," the "Worcester Evening Transcript," 
the " Wide World," the " Boston Evening Travel- 
ler, " the " Saturday Evening Gazette," the " Worces- 
ter Evening Gazette," the " Cincinnati Commercial," 
the " Chicacjo Illustrated Times," the " Chicaojo 
Times," the "Chicago Tribune," "^"orthern Lights," 
the "Thursday Spectator," the "Boston Daily Ad- 
vertiser," the "ISTew York Tribune," "Old and 
New," " Every Saturday," the "Atlantic Monthly," 
" Temple Bar," and the " North American Eeview." 
Obituary and biographical articles, of which he was 
the subject, were printed in "Every Saturday" of 
May 20, 1871, in the " Boston Daily Advertiser " 
of May 1, in the " New York Tribune " of May 1, 
in the " Sunday Chronicle " of Charlestown of May 
7, in the "Worcester Evening Gazette" of April 29, 
in the " Barre Gazette " of May 5, in the " Boston 
Transcript" of April 29, in the '' Boston Traveller" 
of April 29, in the "Boston Journal" of April 29, 
in the " Boston Post "of May 1, in the " Springfield 
Kepublican " of May 1, in the " Worcester Spy " of 



VI NOTE BY THE EDITOR. 

May 1, in the " Saturday Evening Gazette "of April 
30, in the " Lowell Courier " of May 2, in the " Com- 
monwealth " of May 6, in the " Boston Times " of 
April 30, and in the "Hartford Courant" of May 4, 
1871. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



GEOEGE BEYANT WOODS, the eldest cliild 
of Edwin Woods and Martha Angelia (Bry- 
ant) Woods, was born in Barre, Massachusetts, on 
the twenty-fourth day of October, 1844. As a 
child he was delicate in body and precocious in 
mind ; — so delicate in body that his attendance at 
school was deferred till long after he had reached 
the age at which little country boys are usually 
launched into their lessons, and so precocious in 
mind that the assiduous efforts of parents and friends 
could not restrain him from the too rapid acquisition 
of knowledge. When seven years old, he first began 
regular study; but the school-house was a rustic 
building nestled among trees and flowering shrubs, 
in the garden of his father's family physician, 
where, as was the intention, more was done for the 
hearts and eyes and muscles of the pupils than for 
their brains. Nevertheless, we find him attending 
the intermediate school of his district within a 
year, advancing with easy swiftness through all the 
grades of the grammar school, and entering the 
high school of the town at the almost unprecedented 



vm IN MEMORIAM. 

age of nine. The more advanced studies, in wliicli 
he at once began to make extraordinary progress, 
fired his ambition and elicited his hearty enthusiasm ; 
his zeal and facility in learning had the effect, as 
was natural, of obscuring the fact of his excessive 
application, and when he was twelve years old 
he was suddenly stricken down with brain fever 
in its severest form. After his recovery, — in ac- 
cordance with the advice of the late eminent Dr. 
Perry, of Boston, — he was never allowed to enter a 
school-house again, and every effort was made, both 
by those who cherished him and by the boy himself, 
to bring his body back to its true and wholesome 
relation with his intellect. The success of this 
attempt was only partial, however, in spite of the 
employment of every aid which athletic exercise, 
travel, and careful regimen could afford ; and he was 
never really robust or hardy as a youth or a man. 
This result, it may be reverently said, seemed inevi- 
table, for even as a boy he knew the value of exer- 
cise, and practised in accordance with his knowledge ; 
and in after years his life, short as it was, was 
greatly prolonged by his conscientious and pains- 
taking observance of the laws of health. 

At a very early age George Woods showed a 
decided turn for literary work, composing with great 
freedom, and exhibiting uncommon originality both 
of style and thought. Fond as he was of reading, 
he was, even when a little fellow, studious to avoid 
imitating the authors whom he loved, and to culti- 



IN MEMORIAM. ix 

vate the habit of independent thinldng ; and it is 
worthy of note, that once, when the duty of giving a 
" declamation " at the close of the school term had 
been assigned to him, he recited a poem which could 
not be found in the books, and the authorship of 
which was attributed to him from its unfamiliarity, 
and not from its want of merit. He was fond, too, 
as a boy, of writing dialogues and little plays, and 
entered with equal zest into the laborious pleasure 
of adapting them to a home-made stage, and then 
of acting in them. The guide of his education, 
the companion of his boyhood and of his youth, the 
moulder of his mind and habits, and his constant 
adviser and friend was his mother; and to her wise 
and tender counsels he owed no small part of' his 
attainments, and of his characteristic gifts of justness 
and discrimination of mind. Early in life he had 
marked out the path which he intended to pursue : 
he meant to be an author, and to compose books that 
should live ; and it was with this goal ever before his 
eyes that he strove — with real success, as his friends 
believe — to make for himself a style of writing which 
should be transparently clear but yet not inelegant, 
brilliant but not sensational, cultivated but not 
pedantic. 

His first opportunity for really entering upon his 
chosen pursuit was afforded by an uncle, who invited 
him to share in the office work connected with 
" Bryant's Household Monthly," a magazine which 
reached and kept a considerable circulation during 



X IN MEMORIAM. 

the whole of its brief existence. The offer was 
eagerly accepted, of course ; and, as a matter of fact, 
the duties of principal and not of assistant devolved 
upon him within a very short time. And in June, 
1859, at the age of fourteen, when his school com- 
panions were striving for small clerkships, or per- 
haps thinking of entering college, we find him 
absorbed in the hard editorial work of reading, 
accepting, and rejecting manuscripts offered for 
publication, and of writing sketches and stories of 
real merit and more than ordinary attractiveness. 
Some ten months later, when the ill health of the 
publisher, Mr. Bryant, compelled him to abandon 
his enterprise in periodical literature, George re- 
turned to his home in Barre, and remained there 
to be the comfort and stay of his mother's last 
days. For a short time within this period, namely, 
for the first four months of the year 1862, during the 
attendance of the regular official in the State Legis- 
lature, he assumed the functions of editor of the 
" Barre Gazette," performing the work with a spirit, 
skill, and sound judgment which bespoke the ma- 
turity and experience of a man rather than the undi- 
rected and effusive zeal of a boy. 

The Great War meanwhile had begun ; and on 
the 27th of May, 1862, in answer to the urgent 
appeal which came from "Washington after General 
Banks had been defeated in the Valley of the 
Shenandoah, Woods enlisted as a private in the 
Eighth Massachusetts Battery, Captain A. M. Cook, 



IN MEMORIAM. xi 

to serve for six months. It had been found prac- 
tically impossible to restrain him from entering the 
army, although, as was natural, friends and rela- 
tives had been united in their anxiety to turn him 
from his purpose, and although many of his acquaint- 
ances went so far as to predict that the fatigues and 
exposures of camp life would be certain death to one 
so delicate. His age at the date of his " mustering 
in " was less than the minimum permitted by the 
government, and the friendly eagerness of his com- 
manding officer alone made possible his acceptance 
as a recruit. Like most of his companions, he was 
raw to military service ; but he learned what was 
necessary with his usual rapidity ; and his skill with 
the pen resulted in his being made the clerk of the 
battery, a position full of labor, and not without re- 
sponsibility, and the duties of which he performed 
with the most thorough-going devotion and skill. 
The Eighth Battery, in its short time of service, 
had a very severe experience of bivouac, march, 
and battle, being concerned in the great chase after 
Stonewall Jackson, and then in the grand retreat with 
General Pope, and taking an active part in the dis- 
astrous battles of the Second Bull Eun, of Chantilly 
and South Mountain, and of Antietam. It can be 
readily surmised that George Woods never made his 
clerical duties an excuse for shirking the sterner 
work of the campaign. It is recorded by his com- 
panions, that the moment the battery was summoned 
into action he would drop the books and accounts. 



xii IN MEMORIAM. 

witli wliicli he was often busied on the limber of the 
battery wagon, run forward to the gun to which he 
had been assigned, and never flinch from his task so 
long as anything remained to be done. His cool 
courage in the terrible fights in which the battery 
was hotly engaged was really extraordinary, and ex- 
cited the surprise and admiration of the men by the 
side of whom he was but a stripling, and who had 
previously looked upon him as a penman rather than 
a soldier. With the ofiicers he was equally a favor- 
ite, as appeared from the fact that the offer of a 
lieutenancy in a new battery was made to him by 
Lieutenant Kirk at the end of his six months' ser- 
vice, and just after he had reached his eighteenth 
year. An incident which occurred soon after his 
reaching his first camp in Virginia deserves men- 
tioning, partly because it can be given in his own 
language, and partly because it perfectly illustrates 
one of his most marked characteristics : — 

" I fell very sick. With the best will in the world 
to enjoy military life, the exposure, the unaccustomed 
food, the hot climate, brought on such a sickness as 
most soldiers have to go through before they can call 
themselves seasoned, but in my case unusually severe 
and even dangerous. We were sending men off to 
the hospital every day, and there was little sympathy 
to spare. Major Church had double duty to do now 
that my help was withdrawn, and had no time for 
nursing. I seemed in very forlorn condition indeed. 
Home thoughts and memories crowded about me as 



IN MEMORIAM. xiii 

I dozed on the straw ; hosts of predictions as to my 
inability to sustain the hardships of the camp in- 
sisted upon being remembered. I began to get bkie ; 
and I knew that in low spirits was my worst peril. 
Half wandering in my mind as I grew weaker, I 
thought of an old superstitious practice I had read 
of and often tried when at home, — that of opening 
the Bible at random and putting the finger upon 
some passage, as a sort of fortune-telling. The book 
lay in reach of my hand, and tempted me. 'At 
least,' I thought, as I tossed painfully on my straw 
bunk, — ' at least it may give me some encouraging 
word.' I closed my eyes, unclasped the volume, and 
pointed to a verse. What a shudder ran through me 
as I read it : ' And the young men arose, wound him 
up, and carried him out and buried him.' I doubt 
if there is another text anywhere which describes 
more accurately the fate which seemed likely to 
befall me in a day or two. Some sensitive natures 
would have received a shock from such an incident 
which would have made the prophecy come true. 
But it shocked me in another way. It aroused my 
combative instincts. * i^ot this time ! ' I shouted. 
And just then Bartholomew came in with some 
blackberries he had walked miles to pick for me ; 
they checked my disease, and I recovered to laugh 
at superstitious notions." 

This quotation is from a little manuscript vol- 
ume, entitled "A Boy's Campaign," in which Mr. 
Woods not many months before his death chronicled 



xiv IN MEMORIAM. 

his military experience, with a view, not to publica- 
tion, but simply to pleasing and instructing his 
own children. The work, however, is of exceptional 
merit, being characterized by remarkable freedom, 
vigor, and vividness of style; and American boys 
and girls will lose a substantial and wholesome de- 
light if it is never printed in book form. 

In spite, however, of the sickness just described, 
of a somewhat severe accident occasioned by a fall, 
and of other sufferings which he encountered in the 
** seasoning " process of his early campaigning, the 
result of his service in the army was favorable to his 
general health, and he returned home at the end of 
his term of enlistment stouter and stronger in body 
than he had been for several years. On the 2d 
of December, 1862, he was " mustered out." On the 
1st of January, 1863, Mr. Woods returned to his 
chosen calling, accepting the position of assistant 
editor of the "Worcester Evening Transcript," a 
small daily printed in the " heart of the Common- 
wealth"; and tliis post he occupied — except during 
the interval between August and December, 1863 
— until January, 1864. In this instance, again, as 
in the case of his apprenticeship with the " House- 
hold Monthly," the name of his office was a mis- 
nomer. During the greater portion of the time of 
his connection with the " Transcript," the editor-in- 
chief was absent, and Mr. Woods, as the writer has 
heard from his own lips, did the entire editorial and 
office work of the paper unassisted, — writing the 



IN MEMORIAM. XV 

leaders, reading and cutting from the exchanges, 
" doing " all tlie locals, " making up " the sheet, and, 
after the paper had come from the press, folding and 
mailing some of the copies, and selling the rest to 
the newsboys ; and, besides all this, keeping the 
books and paying the employes. His faculty as a 
journalist developed rapidly in this severe training- 
school, and many of his editorial articles attracted 
attention in Boston by their vigor and soundness. 
Here, as throughout his entire career, Mr. Woods's 
course was marked by a stout-hearted and conscien- 
tious independence, which was not truculent or 
quarrelsome, but which could neither be wheedled 
nor bullied. The quality of this independence was 
tested with peculiar severity at one time, when the 
anger of some of his fellow-townsmen reached such 
a point that he was threatened with a mob if he did 
not discontinue his sharp, outspoken criticisms upon 
the famous Congressional " committee on the con- 
duct of the war," — a body in whom Mr. Woods, 
though zealous both as a patriot and a partisan, had 
no confidence ; but the menace did not make him 
retreat an inch from his position. 

In January, 1864, Mr. Woods answered an adver- 
tisement of Mr. Charles Hale, who was then one of 
the principal proprietors of the " Boston Daily Adver- 
tiser," and was by him engaged to take the posi- 
tion of " night editor " of that journal. Mr. Woods 
came to Boston an entire stranger to his supe- 
riors upon the paper ; but within a very few weeks 



XVI IN MEMORIAM. 

their attention was attracted by the great accuracy, 
intelligence, and rapidity with which he performed 
the tedious and exacting duties of his place. Special 
service in the preparation of " war extras," where he 
cheerfully undertook excessive and fatiguing labor, 
and exhibited unusual literary skill and judgment, 
made a great impression upon Mr. Dunbar, the 
*^ editor-in-chief, and shortly after he was deputed as 
^' the special correspondent of the "Advertiser" to 
the QhiuAfflD Convention of 1864, which nominated 
Abraham Lincoln for re-election. The difficult task 
thus assigned to him, and to which he came without 
the slightest previous experience, was admirably 
well performed, and the letters and despatches then 
published over the signature " Wachusett " were the 
first of a long and varied series, of the value and 
interest of which his authorship was soon recognized 
by the public as a sufficient guaranty. He was 
regularly installed as first assistant editor of the 
"Daily Advertiser" in December, 1864, and from 
that time until a few days before his death — with 
an interval only of six months — he performed the 
manifold labors of the position, writing leaders, minor 
" editorials," letters, dramatic criticisms, book notices, 
and, on rare occasions, local articles. Several times 
during this period he was sent away as special cor- 
respondent, and the fruit of these missions, as well 
as of excursions in which he united business and 
pleasure, appeared in capital letters from the seat of 
war at Petersburg, from Eichmond at the time of 



IN MEMOEIAM. xvii 

the triumphal entry of our army, from Washington 
directly after the assassination of President Lincoln, 
from Northern Vermont during the Fenian invasion, 
and from scores of watering-places and inland and 
seaside resorts. From March, 1865, to June, 1865, 
and during the impeachment of President Johnson, 
he also acted as the regular Washington correspond- 
ent of the "Advertiser," and sent letters and tele- 
graphic despatches which were models of their kind. 
The interval of six months, alluded to above, occurred 
between tlie January and July of 1867, for which 
period he was editor-in-chief of the " Saturday Eve- 
ning Gazette," of Boston. Mr. Woods and the gentle- 
man who was at that time the sole owner of the 
" Gazette " did not at all agree in their theories of 
newspaper management. The fearless and outspoken 
language of some of Mr. Woods's leaders proved to 
be very distasteful to the proprietor of the " Gazette," 
and on the 14th of July, 1867, the connection 
was terminated, to the great satisfaction of both. 
The article entitled " Criticism," which will be found 
on the third page of this volume, may perhaps derive 
additional interest from the fact that it especially 
wounded the feelings of Mr. Woods's sensitive 
employer. 

At the same time that Mr. Woods was fulfilling 
the duties of his editorial chair in the " Advertiser " 
of&ce, he contrived to do a great amount of outside 
work. He was for a long time the regular Boston 
correspondent of the ^' New York Tribune " and of 



xvm IN MEMOEIAM. 

the"Cliicago Tribune"; and he contributed frequently 
to the "Atlantic Monthly" and "Every Saturday" 
during the latter part of his life, and was known 
as an occasional writer for the "North American 
Eeview," and for the " Temple Bar " of London. With 
all this he kept up his reading in every important 
branch of politics, literature, and art, and found time 
in which to enjoy his home and family, and to re- 
ceive and visit his friends, — pleasures in which he 
took special comfort and satisfaction. The secret of 
his immense capacity for labor was doubtless in his 
skill in economizing time, — a skill which was both 
a gift and a habit with him. His hard thinking he 
seemed to do at odd moments, — in wakeful hours 
at night, in the horse-cars, in his long walks between 
his office and his home ; and when he sat down to 
write, his work appeared generally to be little more 
than that of transcribing what was plainly inscribed 
on his mind. 

As early as 1866 the serious anxiety of Mr. 
Woods's friends was excited on the subject of his 
health, and in the spring of 1867 it seemed to many 
that he was in the last stages of pulmonary con- 
sumption. A vacation and visit to Washington in 
March of the latter year, however, had the effect of 
restoring his strength, — temporarily, as it proved, 
but so completely, as it then seemed, that every hope 
was entertained of his permanent recovery. Gradu- 
ally, however, the insidious disease again advanced 
upon his life, and at length prevailed, though it was 



IN MEMORIAM. xix 

resisted with a quiet persistency and courage which 
were nothing short of wonderful. On the 17th of 
March, 1871, he once more sought restoration in 
travel, and for the last time made a visit to Wash- 
ington. But it was too late for any regimen or rest 
to avail ; and in a few weeks he returned to his 
home in Boston, and there passed away peacefully 
on the 29th of April, 1871. 

It is foreign to the purpose of tliis memoir to pro- 
nounce any eulogy upon the private hfe and personal 
character of George Woods. That work has already 
been done in the spirit both of tender affection and 
of careful judgment by many skilful writers con- 
nected with the press ; and from them it was wel- 
come, if not necessary. By the world at large it is 
inevitable that, as a man, he should be soon forgot- 
ten ; while the remembrance of his spotless life and 
his sweet, strong, unselfish nature will be enshrined 
forever in the hearts of those who knew and loved 
him best. 

H. A. C. 



CONTENTS. 



Note by the Editor 


Page 

iii 


In Memoriam 


vii 


Social and Literary Topics. 




Criticism 


3 


Our Manners 


6 


Co-operative Housekeeping . 

Domestic Service 


. 12 
14 


Carriage Journeys in New England 

A Magical Transformation . . . . 


. 16 
20 


Cattle-Shows 


. 23 


Christmas Morning . . . . 


26 


Summer at the Seaside .... 


. 27 


Compounding Felonies . . . . 
The Sleighing Season .... 


30 
. 33 


Women in Medical Schools 


38 


''Our Society" 

The Lecturers 


. 41 
47 


The Dickens Dinner of 1842 . 


. 52 


Charles Dickens 


62 


Our Portrait Statues .... 


. 67 


Eobert Collyer 

Alexandre Dumas 


. 79 


Mr. Tenniel's Cartoons . . . . 


84 


Wendell Phillips as an Orator 


. 90 


Dramatic Topics. 




♦ How old was Hamlet? . . . . 


99 


P The Time of " Hamlet " ... 


. 102 


Hissing in the Theatre . . . . 


106 



XXll 



CONTENTS. 



''The Nightingale" at Selwyn's 

Nilsson in the Concert-Room 

Two Comedies 

Dramatizations . 

Two Enghsh Artists 

Edwin Booth's " Richeheu " 

Opera Bouffe and its Manager 

Charles Fechter 

Joseph Jefferson . 

Thomas W. Robertson 

An American Play, — " Saratoga " 

The Lovers of the Stage . 

William Warren 

The Menao:erie . 



109 
111 
116 
120 
125 
130 
134 
139 
144 
149 
154 
160 
165 
170 



Political Topics. 

Primary Meetings .... 
The Punishment of Jefferson Davis 
Mr. Sprague and his Oratory . 
Mr. Adams's Letter . 



177 
180 
182 
186 



Letters from a Wandering Correspondent. 

Inland Journeyings 
First Day of the Journey . 
Second Day of the Journey . 
Third Day of the Journey . 
Fourth Day of the Journey . 
A Ramble through Petersburg . 
Richmond .... 
Assassination of President Lincoln 
A Week with the Fenians 



191 
197 
202 
206 
212 
217 
225 
246 
250 



Stories. 

A Freshman's Romance 285 

The Blue River Bank Robbery . . . .316 

Our Breakfast at the Astor .... 340 

Our Maid : How we lost and how we found her . 353 

Marrying a Pickpocket 377 



I. 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES 

ON SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS 



SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 



CRITICISM. 

ONE of the most peculiar traits of the American 
character is its combination of extreme insen- 
sibility to criticism in political matters with the most 
morbid sensitiveness to criticism on all other subjects. 
Our public men denounce each other as imbeciles, 
as corruptionists, as apostates, even as traitors, and 
nobody is offended. One distinguished man makes 
it his business to go about the country calling this 
statesman an ass, that one a mass of jelly, and an- 
other a trimmer, and at the next meeting of the friends 
of the prohibitory law he will be seen cordially greet- 
ing on their common platform the very men whom he 
has so bitterly abused. The newspapers carry their 
attacks ujDon men high in the public estimation into 
the realm of private life, and the enormity is accepted 
as a matter of course ; and journalists, the most ex- 
alted in influence and reputation, in their controver- 
sies with each other exchange the lie and the foul 
insinuation as freely as the fishwomen of Billingsgate. 
The national hide seems calloused in regard to mat- 
ters of this kind ; and the politician or the editor who 
should complain of any special piece of severity as 
unfair or unjustifiable would only injure himself by 
his querulousness, and be scornfully advised to harden 



4 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

his nerves. But when we leave the sphere of politics 
for that of literature or of the arts, all is changed, and 
we find a general tenderness quite as remarkable as 
the roughness observed before. In other countries it 
is not decent and perhaps not safe to call a man a 
drunkard or a knave simply because he has been hon- 
ored with high office, or to hurl the lie in a gentle- 
man's teeth because he conducts a political paper; 
but a book, a picture, a play, or a piece of acting, 
claims no shelter behind the personality of author or 
artist, but expects, even challenges, and at any rate 
receives, criticism upon its merits only, — and criti- 
cism becomes an art second to none other, and an 
important element in the structure of society. 

That this is precisely reversed in America, no one 
needs to be told. The prima donna who reads of a 
false note in her aria or a failure in her acting seeks not 
to correct the faults so much as to suggest some cause 
for the malevolence of the critic, and perhaps to find 
a way to retaliate for the injury done. The picture- 
dealer who finds that of a certain collection the merits 
of some paintings are pointed out and the faults of 
others are indicated, does not rejoice that the public 
taste is educated, and his business thereby benefited 
if he chooses to move upward with the tide, but flies 
into a passion because bidders are more apt to dis- 
criminate, and less likely to buy canvas by the foot 
with their eyes shut. If a new book is praised, the 
publisher considers that the newspaper has done its 
duty, and rewards it with sugar-plums in the shape 
of advertisements ; if the work is condemned, he 
cuts ofi" the supplies in the same kind, and insinuates 
that the criticism appears because he has not been 
sufficiently liberal in the past. If a play is received 
with anything short of unqualified praise, the man- 



CRITICISM. 5 

ager vents his wrath upon the collector of the offend- 
ing journal, makes the meagreness of his advertisement 
in its columns in striking contrast with the display 
of large tyj^e in its more complaisant neighbors, and 
perhaps descends a stej) lower to refuse the too frank 
critic a seat in his house or an admission at his door. 
Of course, all this is the most short-sighted folly. 
Honest criticism not only benefits the interests of lit- 
erature and art in general, but it benefits in the most 
direct manner the publisher, artist, or manager, whose 
A'entures are the subject of remark in particular. 
The journal which tolerates only a dead level of ful- 
some praise soon ceases to have its criticisms read, and 
the space which they occupy might just as well be left 
blank, so far as either critic or criticised is concerned ; 
while the paper which gained a reputation for fair, care- 
ful, and, if need be, sharjD criticism is eagerly looked 
to, its praise when it comes is worth having, and its 
comment of any kind attracts more attention to the 
thing discussed than a dozen advertisements. This 
is patent to all who intelligently observe ; yet while 
our literature and our arts advance, at this day one 
may count upon his fingers the journals, from daily 
to quarterly, which may be constantly relied upon for 
independent criticism ; and the digits of one hand 
will suflSce for those producers in any class who re- 
ceive such criticism in a kindly siDirit, and do not treat 
all public mention of faults as a possible evil to be 
bought off by extra favors, or an accomplished injury 
to be avenged by direct retaliation. This is a humili- 
ating confession ; and the results of this unfortunate 
tendency are manifest enough; for if any one attempts 
to explain the lack in our civilization in any depart- 
ment, — as, for instance, the unsatisfactory condition 
of the stage, and the entire absence of any original 



6 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

drama, — the demoralized condition of our criticism is 
first put forward, and with justice. We can only hope 
that each day's advance brings progress towards re- 
form in this all-important matter. Encourage, as a 
public, those journals which hold the truth dearer than 
bread and butter, and so make truthfulness and profit- 
ableness go always hand in hand, as they are sure to 
do in the end ; and generally cultivate that correct 
appreciation of the uses and value of criticism in 
which many large classes of the community seem, 
when its lash touches themselves, to be so sadly defi- 
cient. 



OUR MANNERS. 

The observer of society who shuts himself up in his 
lodgings, and gets his notions of life from day to day 
and month to month by taking in the Daily Advertiser 
and the Atlantic, may fondly cherish the belief that 
we are a well-bred people, and feel a wholesome indig- 
nation at the caricatures of Mr. Dickens and Mr. Trol- 
lope, or a sincere rejoicing that the times when we 
were open to their criticisms have gone by forever. 
Our literature has grown, our artistic tastes have de- 
veloped, our politics have become purified, many of our 
crudest characteristics have been toned doAvn, in the 
last twenty years ; but no one who goes about among 
his kind can help seeing and lamenting that, however 
gratifying may be the culture of some cliques and the 
refinement of some communities, in the point of man- 
ners we have advanced very little beyond the age 
when the acutest of modern observers could find 
among us no better national types than Elijah Pogram, 



OUR MANNERS. 7 

Jefferson Brick, and Hannibal Challop. These gen- 
tlemen would tell us that this people, sir, have been 
too busy in extending our boundaries and our currency, 
settling our prairies and our rebels, to attend to mat- 
ters of such minor consequence as our manners. But 
the eloquence of Mr. EUjah Pogram cannot i3ersuade 
us that this subject is of trivial importance ; and the 
shrewdest thinkers realize that, not only in the esti- 
mation of foreigners who scrutinize us when they 
visit America and when we travel abroad, but in our 
own national self-respect, and our progress toward 
that height of civilization and morality as a people 
which is our goal, this matter of manners is an ele- 
ment hardly second in importance to any other. 

The closet of the student may create many brilliant 
theories ; there may be and are many parlors and 
circles of parlors where the finest representatives of 
the salons of Paris and the drawing-rooms of London 
may meet the fruit of our culture and the flower of 
our society on equal terms and part with mutual 
esteem and respect ; but in the regions of fact and of 
active every-day life the encouraging indications are 
few. A recent writer in a British magazine, indeed, 
takes the ground that Americans are too gallant to 
women ; but in our street-cars and public assemblies 
the displays of this excessive courtesy are rare indeed, 
though the instances of the forgetfulness of propriety 
on tlie part of the other sex, which forms the main 
topic of the article referred to, the omissions to ex- 
press any acknowledgment for services rendered, the 
imperious demands for the most extreme favors as 
vested rights of femineity, are frequent enough. If 
we leave the street-car for the place of public amuse- 
ment, no matter of what grade, the illustrations of the 
general lack of consideration for the privileges of oth- 



8 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

ers become more numerous and more flagrnnt. At the 
loftiest tragedy or the rarest concert there is always 
a sufficient minority who forget the first of the vir- 
tues, and come straggling in with various degrees of 
tardiness to spoil the first portion of the programme 
so far as the majority are concerned; and always a 
larger proportion to join, from five to fifteen minutes 
before the close of the entertainment, the hideous 
stamjDcde started by some acute observer who has 
detected the approach of the denouement^ and flees 
from it with his followers as from a pestilence. Then, 
between these left and right wings of the army of 
the ill-bred, who thus assault the enjoyment of their 
neighbors, there are always the couple who come to 
flirt and not to hear ; the mother who brings her teeth- 
ing baby to the play, and enjoys the performance 
through its cries with calm serenity ; the man who has 
seen the play before, and heralds every incident in 
trumpet whispers to an enduring companion; the 
man who hums and beats time to all the music ; and 
the man who rises to a long struggle with a tight- 
fitting overcoat in the midst of a tableau which he 
hides from fifty pairs of interested eyes, when by 
waiting three minutes to the end of the act he would 
disturb nobody. The general submission to these 
outrages upon courtesy and the rights of the majority 
may indeed be adduced as a proof of the extreme po- 
liteness of the community; but there is a point beyond 
which forbearance ceases to be a virtue, and a simple 
and stinging rebuke to these violators of the general 
comfort would be a good deed in the cause of man- 
ners, and in no way an ofience against them. 

But no experience at home can open one's eyes to 
the prevalence of ill-breeding as the observation for 
which travel gives an opportunity. The incivility of 



OUB MANNERS. 9 

railroad and steamboat officials has passed into a prov- 
erb ; the venerable Mr. Theodore D wight was cruelly 
sacrificed, not very long ago, to the brutality of a New 
Jersey conductor; and Mr. Bayard Taylor has just 
told us how in the West he has seen a gentleman 
knocked down with a slung-shot by a brakeman for 
attempting to quit a filthy smoking-car for a comfort- 
able and half-tenanted " ladies' car." Then travel 
brings us in contact, not only with the class of public 
servants who are exceptionally boorish because it is 
their chief duty to be civil, but with those uncouth 
specimens of extraordinary abomination whose eccen- 
tricities outweigh the undemonstrative good-breeding 
of fifty people, and who have so naturally found their 
way into the note-book of every tourist w^ho has vis- 
ited our shores. We had the fortune the other day 
to sit next one of this class, who, without any 
occasion for hurry and with the calm system of every- 
day habit, ate a dinner of several regular courses — 
soup, roast, cold meat, pastry, and fruit, with the usual 
accompaniment of vegetables and minor dishes — in 
precisely eight minutes, and yet managed to find time 
to blow his nose on his napkin. Doubtless his doctor 
and dyspepsia have his punishment in store for him ; 
but his proximity was hardly more unpleasant than 
that of a kindred spirit encountered at another hotel, 
who called the waiters invariably " Sir," and yet bul- 
lied them shamefully, grasping at one who was attend- 
ing to another table, sending three or four after one 
order, reaching fabulous distances after the dishes of 
his neighbors, and committing a long catalogue of 
enormities for which he should haA'e been whipped 
when a child of four. Both these men were arrayed 
in broadcloth, and apparently not wanting in intellect- 
ual ability or social position. Indeed, the mostlament- 
1* 



10 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

able feature of this constant cropping out of ill- 
breeding is that it is not confined to any class or any- 
social grade. Fashion and taste are not exempt : the 
audience at the opera or at one of Ristori's perform- 
ances is guilty of as many violations of taste as the 
spectators of "The Black Crook;" and the most ill- 
mannered assemblage of people Ave have ever seen in 
Boston was made up of the creme de la crtme of 
Cambridge and its dej^endencies, who had taken 
tickets by subscription to aid and compliment an 
amateur joroiff?^/!. Sex and position do not keep the 
skirts clear ; for M. Blot's first class here was formed 
of the choicest material, yet he was forced to contem- 
plate calling in the aid of a policeman to keep the 
ladies from devouring instead of tasting his specimen 
dishes, and from spoiling each other's dresses in their 
easrerness. Political eminence has no defence ; for 
the memory of the most shameful indecency in the 
House of Representatives at Washington, in wdiich 
the venerable so-called leader of that body took a 
principal part, has hardly faded away Avhen we have 
an almost equally imworthy passage betw^een two 
esteemed Senators, one who jDrides himself upon his 
culture, and the other the most dignified in the cham- 
ber, snapping at each other like a couple of school- 
boys. It is as uncommon to find a mistress who 
knows how to speak to a servant as an American or 
Irish servant who comprehends her own position ; 
Harvard College has its hazing record, and the pulpit 
furnishes the cross-examiner of the license-law wit- 
nesses ; and so we are forced to the conclusion that 
the taint is upon every class alike, and that it is unfaii* 
to attempt to throw^ the odium upon shoddy or the 
backwoods. The shoulders of the whole people must 
bear the burden until progress in civilization gives us 
the right to repudiate it. 



OUR MANNERS. 11 

There is, however, one exception of an entire class, 
sufficiently notable to be made and marked with 
emphasis; and this is in favor of that despised and 
wronged black race, which, through all its misfortunes 
and in sj^ite of all its weaknesses, has maintained a 
propriety of manners which might well furnish a les- 
son to those who detest and those who patronize it. 
Of course, CufFee would not shine in the drawing-room, 
and Dinah might be as uncomfortable a neighbor at the 
opera as the fair damsel wdio knows how to flirt, but 
not how to whisper; but these people have the rare 
faculty of preserving a bearing suitable to their place. 
The most amiable and stately lady may fail to elicit 
anything but surliness and imj^udence from Bridget ; 
but whoever knows how to treat her servant properly 
may be sure of respectful behavior fi-om the black 
domestic, whether she comes fi'om an apprenticeship 
of slavery or freedom. 'No other servants in America 
seem able to maintain their dignity without insolence, 
to obey orders imj^licitly without slavish subservience. 
The doubter need only go from one of our own hotels 
where colored waiters are employed to one w^here 
they are not to perceive the contrast, — a contrast so 
important and so material as to make all the differ- 
ence between comfort and annoyance, between a 
repast eaten with a relish and a meal awaited with 
im]3atience and received with disgust. 

We shall bave to surrender to the charge of preach- 
ing a long sermon without a practical application ; 
for there is no recipe in any manual from Adam 
Smith to Pierre Blot for teaching a community the 
manners which its members should have learned in 
childhood ; and the most ardent advocate of sump- 
tuary laws would hardly vote for a statute forbidding 
men's eating with their knives, and compelling women. 



12 ■ SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

to return thanks for seats given them in the street- 
cars. We have only to chronicle the signs of the 
times, and to hope that progress, even if it be slow, 
may be made in the direction of refinement and not 
of barbarism. 



CO-OPERATIYE HOUSEKEEPING. 

We have lately made a careful investigation of a 
new attempt to establish a co-operative kitchen in 
this city, being inspired with the hope that a step has 
thus been made towards the solution of a question of 
no small importance in our social economy. While 
the enterprises undertaken by members of society for 
their own relief halt in the i^reliminary stages, this 
project, begun as a private speculation, covers most of 
the essential features of the actual need, and is well 
worth studying as a plan and watching as an experi- 
ment. 

There seems no doubt that, in the advancing life of 
our cities, Boston taking the lead as is her wont, some 
such system as this will be incorporated among our 
national habits. While servants are getting rarer and 
rarer, and the art of managing servants is forgotten ; 
while women grow feebler with each generation, and 
feel more and more inclination to give their time and 
thought to labors and pleasures outside the home ; 
while people crowd into cities, and are content to live 
like bees in a hive for the sake of being near the gay 
thoroughfare, the theatre, the music-school, the lecture- 
room, the picture-gallery, the library ; while provision- 
dealers are in such haste to be rich that the modest 
profits of their fathers seem contemptible in their 



CO-OPERATIVE HOUSEKEEPING. 13 

eyes; while restaurant-keepers fail to hit the happy- 
mean of cheapness and cleanliness, good service and 
wholesome fare, — while these things continue, there 
will be a demand for institutions to supply good food 
from a common kitchen to the private table at a low 
rate. 

But while acknowledging this, and that the need 
which has grown upon us and is still growing must be 
met, we still insist that the ideal life is to be found 
in the older fashioned ways. He whose wife does 
not know the difference between a skillet and a skew- 
er, whose servant-maids have been a procession of 
inefficiency, stupidity followed by drunkenness, and 
drunkenness suj^erseded only by larceny and impu- 
dence, who has sighed for the quiet of the hotel and 
the wholesome fare of the boarding-house, — may greet 
the teams which drive up to his door with dinner 
ready-made and hot, as heralds of a new era of com- 
fort, peace, ease, and economy. But that is still the 
happier family which has an individuality in its cook- 
ery as in its dress, its reading, the pictures on its 
walls ; in which the kitchen ministers to the wants of 
the dining-room as a horse responds to the moods of 
his rider ; in which the housewife controls the flavor 
of the pudding and the amount of salt in the soup ; in 
which the children grow up to know and love the 
taste of the home steak and the home waffles as they 
learn to love the faces and voices of father and mother. 
The co-operativC' kitchen may be the best device 
for the average American of the period, — living in a 
hurry, with no class accepting as a permanent sj^here 
of life the position of domestic servants ; but the home 
kitchen will, nevertheless, be at the foundation of 
the social structure in our highest and best civili- 
zation. 



14 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 



DOMESTIC SERVICE. 

The compiler of the social almanac, if sucli a con- 
venience is ever invented, will not fail to observe that 
this season of the year is the period of kitchen revolu- 
tions, and of a host of petty miseries, anxieties, and 
embarrassments which come from the general transfer 
of servants. The many families who come back from 
the summer journey seek busily for cooks and house- 
maids to re-organize their city establishments, and by 
their eager demands and liberal offers act as bulls in 
the domestic market. The households which have 
been in running order all summer feel the effect at 
once, in a general uneasiness, and willingness to ter- 
minate long-standing contracts uj^on the slightest pre- 
texts. The intelligence offices and the organs of 
"want" advertisements i^rofit by the general shift- 
ings ; but housekeepers, rich and jDOor, suffer alike, 
and the cries of complaint over the deficiencies of 
our social structure become louder than ever. The 
prophets of the coming dispensation of China in the 
kitchen are looked to in vain for relief; they can 
promise, even with the Pacific Railroad and Mr. 
Koopmanschap in energetic activity, no positive relief 
for the present generation. Two of the most brilliant 
ladies of the Beecher family have put their heads 
together, and made a book which aims to meet every 
want of the modern household ; but he will consult it 
in vain who seeks a method of obtaining a good ser- 
vant when there are none in the land. 

An English literary paj^er surveys the field of fiction 
to point the moral, which for us needs no illustration, 
that in the Old World fidelity is a recognized and fre- 
quent quality of the attendant, while in our country 



DOMESTIC SERVICE. 15 

such a trait is wholly unknown. Job Trotter sticks 
• to his master as stoutly as Sam Weller stands by his ; 
Trim's very existence is dependent on Uncle Toby ; 
Donncr, in "Felix Holt," identified her own dignity 
with that of " her mistress " ; Miss Muloch's books are 
full of faithful servitors. It is hard to recall a marked 
instance of treachery except that of Major Pendennis's 
" own man," Morgan; and he was a valet of wonderful 
efficiency, and a very model of respectful demeanor, 
until the explosion which closed his career. But in 
our novels, or at least in those which picture with any 
accuracy the condition of our society, the faithful ser- 
vant is unknown, or else has a black face and tropical 
blood which flee far away from the frosts of Xew 
England. 

It would seem that such examples as that of the 
head-waiter at a New York hotel, who wears shirt- 
studs in which is concentrated the value of five thou- 
sand dollars, would send hosts of avaricious aspirants 
into a calling the rewards of which are always more 
sure and sometimes more lucrative than the prizes of 
Wall Street. But no such temptation has availed to 
induce competent men and women to take the chances 
which are opened : the field is left clear to the mem- 
bers of a single nationality ; and they, dull as they 
may be at the problems of a pudding, are quick to 
l^erceive their own advantage in the absence of com- 
petition, and to manifest the discovery in many ofien- 
sive vrays. 

Under these circumstances it is cheerful to know 
that California and Oregon are clamoring for an in- 
crease in the supply of " female help " from Xew 
England. Misery ever loves company ; and it is 
pleasant to hear of communities which can be worse 
ofiT in this respect than ourselves. Moreover, the 



16 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

offers the agents of the Pacific States make — twenty- 
five dollars a month in gold and a husband in a few 
months — are exceedingly tempting ; and we may 
contemplate with equanimity the thought that they 
will draw across the continent some of the more am- 
bitious young ladies who sit clothed in scorn at our 
employment agencies and communicate their im- 
perious demands and fastidious requirements to 
the public through the press. But these reflections 
are dashed by the thought that these eager people are 
much nearer the vaunted inexhaustible reservoir of 
Celestial labor than we are, and must have had an 
abundant opportunity to test its quality. If the long- 
cued cook from Canton be so skilful, so cleanly, so 
honest, so industrious as represented, why does San 
Francisco make extravagant bids for the experience of 
the tyranny under which Boston groans ? Such an 
infxtuation is incredible. The conclusion cannot be 
avoided, that China has a fatal flaw of which the 
eulogists have told us nothing ; and with the discovery 
vanishes the last hope of a suffering community. A 
witty lecturer has taken for his theme " The Comedy 
of the Boarding-House"; but a dozen Lyceum courses 
would not give scope enough for adequate elucidation 
of the Tragedy of the Kitchen. 



CARRIAGE JOURNEYS IN JSTEW ENGLAND. 

Two tastes which are almost universal, the love of 
natural scenery and the fondness for driving good 
horseflesh over a good road, can be gratified so well 
by no other way of employing the summer vacation 



CARRIAGE-JOURNEYS IN KEW ENGLAND. 17 

as by the expedition around the country in a carriage. 
This form of pleasure has an independence, a variety, 
a bhiif wholesomeness about it, which can be claimed 
for no other method of pleasure travel except the 
pedestrian journey, the advantages of which are bal- 
anced by limitations which we need not enumerate. 
For the married j^air whose relish of each other's so- 
ciety is so thorough as to need no added element, and 
for the well-regulated family in which the temper of 
the little folks can be depended upon under occasional 
trials, there are possibilities of enjoyment not easily 
to be reckoned in the trip which turns its back on the 
steamboat and keeps aloof from railroads, and com- 
bines something of the zest of the explorer in new 
lands with something of the racy flavor of gypsy life. 
Good judgment is needed, of course, in arranging 
the details of the journey. The party, be they two 
or four, must be provided with a maximum of good- 
nature to a minimum of baggage. The organization 
must be that of a constitutional monarchy with ab- 
solute power in the hands of him who holds the reins, 
yet with a channel open for advice from those subject 
to his authority. The lunch-basket may be neglected, 
but the shawls and overcoats must not on any account 
be forgotten. The carriage may be handsome, but 
must be easy ; and a single uncomfortable angle in one 
of its seats may convert the journey from a tour of 
pleasure into such a pilgrimage of penance as those 
worthy joeople were wont to take who w^alked to 
Rome with peas in their shoes. The harnesses do not 
need gilded monograms so much as uniform strength ; 
and room should be made somewhere for a S2:)are strap 
or two to make up for any possible shortcoming. The 
horses will do very well, though they have never ac- 
complished a mile in three minutes, if they are equal to 



18 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

fifteen or twenty miles a day for a long stretch, afraid 
of nothing, never given to stumbling, and willing to 
stand patiently in the shade if required. Moreover, one 
horse is better than two, if the party does not exceed 
two persons. The route should be so mapped out be- 
forehand as to have certain definite aims, and yet 
should have such elasticity as to be capable of modifi- 
cation in all minor particulars ; and it should be 
down in the bond that none of the company is either 
of sugar or salt to be spoiled by a wetting, and that 
nobody is afraid either of dust or of salt-pork. 

With such careful preparation in advance as we 
have indicated in outline, days filled to the brim w^ith 
delight may be counted upon from the beginning to 
the end of the excursion. New England has special 
advantages over any other portion of the country for 
carriage travel. The South has in some sections 
scenery as picturesque ; but the roads are apt to be 
intolerable ; and the fare has quite too liberal an in- 
fusion of swine's flesh and hominy for the good-humor 
which is in any way dependent upon digestion. The 
West is altogether too large, its prairies too monot- 
onous, to be enjoyed at anything less than railroad 
speed. But New England has infinite variety of hill 
and valley, with plenty of w^ater to give life to the 
landscape : it is by no means cultivated into tameness ; 
its town system keeps its roads (out of sight of the 
State-house) in very good order ; and the traveller 
may be reasonably sure, in almost any village, of fair 
accommodations for man and beast. Whether lie 
strengthens his tugs and looks well to the breeching, 
and then clambers about the hills of Berkshire, or takes 
the lazier rides among the tobacco and broom-corn of 
the Connecticut valley, or v>\anders among the dairy 
farms of Worcester County, or chooses a route where 



CARRIAGE-JOURNEYS IN NEW ENGLAND. 19 

the parting forests give glimpses of the sea, and the 
material for the noonday lunch was drawn from its 
home under the waves after sunrise, the tourist can 
hardly go wrong in Massachusetts ; and we need not 
say that, about the inlets of Narragansett, in the White 
Mountains and the Green Mountains, or away down 
East until civilization begins to ravel out in the num- 
bered townships, the charms of each region Avill find 
many admirers to extol them in superlative adjectives. 
The party fairly inoculated with the fascination of 
the indejDendent journey will find early rising not 
necessary, but natural and agreeable. A good start 
insures a good day. The horses trot better, the birds 
sing more briskly, before the fi-eshness of morning is 
past. Whatever part of J^ew England is chosen, 
there is sure to be a variety in each day's rides. If 
a forest-covered mountain shades the road to-day, a 
river, or a plain checkered with cornfield and meadow, 
will open before the gaze to-morrow. A snake gliding 
across the road, a squirrel chattering audaciously on 
the wall, a laborer musically whetting his scythe, will 
furnish material for conversation as interesting for 
the nonce as the opera or the war in Europe. To 
enjoy fully, one should not know his road too well; 
for there are delicious glimpses of life and character 
to be gained in the pauses at lonely farm-houses to 
inquire the way. The villages, all bearing the New 
England stamp we know so well, yet with individual- 
ity enough to interest each in itself, are scattered 
along thickly enough to break up any tediousness 
which might be found in the world as its Maker left 
it. Then the halt for dinner is likely to be full of fun, 
if not of good eating; and the guest of catholic tastes 
is sure to find something to be enjoyed at the plainest 
country inn. If the bacon is hard, the eggs will be 



20 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

fresh ; if the bread is charged with saleratus, there will 
be an aj^ple-pie or a griddle-cake, the art of making 
which to perfection has been a tradition in that fam- 
ily for generations. Or, failing all these, there is no 
dessert which the Revere House could oifer to com- 
pare with the privilege of stopping a mile from town, 
loosing the check-rein that the horse may browse by 
the roadside, and picking berries, which Nature has 
placed there on purpose, w^ith no envious pint or quart 
measure to limit the quantity of the feast. Then, if 
one is a good questioner, each town is sure to reveal 
something of special interest, — some ancient burial- 
ground or Indian camp, some cave or natural bridge 
or old man of the mountain, some cascade or special 
view, some paper-mill or cheese-factory, a visit to 
which, even at the expense of a detour^ will break the 
monotony of the afternoon. The day's drive is likely 
to end before sunset : the supper may retrieve w^hat- 
ever was lacking in the dinner, and at least there will 
be a tumbler of warm milk ; and if the village hotel 
offers small entertainment for the evening, going to 
bed early will make it all the easier to begin in good 
time the pleasures of the following day. 



A MAGICAL TRANSFORMATION. 

The city awoke yesterday morning to find itself 
enchanted. Nothing had been too grand, nothing 
too common, to undergo a beautiful transformation. 
The very walls of the brick houses were veiled with 
a delicate fretwork of snow, the black- walnut doors 
having their carvings illuminated with a nev;" elegance, 



A MAGICAL TEANSFORMATION. 21 

and every window-casing forming a separate picture 
for the study of the artist. Here and there a dingy 
block was changed, from eaves to foundation, to the 
splendor of white marble, and the real marble build- 
ings looked dingy beside them. Every ornamental 
iron fence was adorned with a tracery far more grace- 
ful than the original lines ; every plain jDost was 
crowned a king ; every homely shed was capped with 
a stately dome. The very clothes-line in the back- 
yards became great cables, big enough to hold a 
frigate in her moorings. The public clocks had be- 
come mere blank disks, with hands and figures alike 
obliterated. Every tree and shrub had a new beauty 
of its own, to be studied with intense enjoyment by 
appreciative eyes, but not to be described in words. 
There was something of sadness in the brilliant scene 
presented by the Common; for while the branches 
were all cloaked in snow, the snow was thickly strown 
with branches torn roughly off by the wind. The 
shield with the State arms, on the West Street gate, 
might have been the silver shield which the knight 
fought for in the old story ; and a snow hand above 
it upheld a snow sword as the arm 

" Clothed in -white samite, mystic, wonderful," 

caught by the hilt and brandished the wondrous 
sword Excalibur, of which 

" All the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, 
JMyriads of topaz lights, and jacjnth work 
Of subtlest jewelry." 

The Granary Burying-ground was one of the most 
exquisite spots in the city, with its bushes arched to 
the ground, and its aged stones of the j^urest white 
and the most perfect curves. The statue of Franklin 
might have been a representation of Sir John Frank- 
lin on one of his long tramps in the Arctic regions ; 



22 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

and the figures in the bronze bas-reliefs below looked 
like some of Paul Konewka's silhouettes, standing 
out boldly against their spotless background. Flora 
and Pomona, on the Horticultural Hall, facing a dif- 
ferent way, seemed merely to have put on tij^pets and 
sacks of ermine to protect themselves from the un- 
congenial season. In short, everything in the boun- 
daries of the city had undergone a change " into 
something rich and strange" ; and in the country the 
transformations wrought by the storm were even more 
picturesque and fantastic. Poets and children were 
delighted ; practical people, who had to take an early 
walk to the railway-station, or had planned a day's 
shopping, grumbled and looked sour at all the glorious 
sights ; and poor folk, who had waited all winter 
with hardly one fair job of snow-shovelling, were glad 
in their own way. 

In the country, things remained about as the storm 
had left them ; but the impatient city was not long 
in spoiling all the splendor which had come over it 
in its dreams. Gangs of men cleared the sidewalks, 
and knocked the dainty filigree-work from the fences 
from sheer vandalism; Bridget brushed the graceful 
mounds away from the window-copings ; the sun sent 
the white curtains which veiled the house-fronts drijD- 
ping down upon the heads of the passers ; and even 
the trackless waste of the Common was crossed by 
sharp-cut paths. The hurrying teams soon turned the 
frequented streets to brown, and then to black ; and 
in a few hours all had resumed the every-day aspect 
of the city winter. 



CATTLE-SHOWS. 23 



CATTLE-SHOWS. 

September is a month with her special charms to 
the resident of the city. The season of vacations, of 
harbor excursions, of days at the sea-shore, is over; and 
the season of operas, concerts, and lectures has not 
begun. The excitement of politics seems still a re- 
mote possibility of the future ; the chief activity is in 
the circles of trade ; and it is generally a month of 
work and of preparation rather than of brisk enjoy- 
ment. But to the country people it is a month of rare 
excitement and pleasure. The city cousins, with their 
unintelligible raptures over the smell of the hay and 
the luxury of stillness, have flitted away ; the labor 
of the farmer's year pauses, or puts on its pleasantest 
phase in the gathering of the ripened harvest; and, 
above all, it is the month of the agricultural fair, — 
that festival which, more than any other holiday in 
the round year may be enjoyed in the reflected glow 
of anticipation, brightened by the busy labor of ]^re- 
paring for it in all the departments which are the 
pride of the household and the farm. 

Every morning during the present season sees, in 
some elm and maple shaded village of New England, 
the pleasant sight of which no long repetition stales 
the infinite variety, either to the farmer who has driven 
his choicest stock to the public pens every year for a 
lifetime, or to the sturdy boy who was not old enough 
last year for a place in the family wagon. Before 
daylight the task of currying, of harnessing, milking, 
dressing, and packing, begins ; and sunrise sees the 
parties from every farm on the way to the common 
centre, — the cattle marching along with a dignity of 
demeanor as if they somehow understood the impor- 



24 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

tance of the occasion, the horses snuffing the excite- 
ment of the track afar off, the pigs traversing the dis- 
tance half a dozen times in their noisy miwillingness 
to keep on as their driver wishes, the poultry droop- 
ing and despondent under their unwonted condition 
of close imprisonment, the family in their Sunday best 
in the most spacious vehicle at their command, under 
the seats of which lurk pots of butter from the dairy, 
loaves of bread made by the oldest daughter, baskets 
of the biggest and ruddiest apples culled from the 
whole orchard, and perhaps a folded quilt, the slow 
and constant work of the household's grandmother 
for many months of matching and stitching. And by 
these conservative companies, as they near the fair- 
ground, dash the rejDresentatives of the more progres- 
sive element of the country cattle-show, — self-pos- 
sessed men in skeleton sulkies, with slender horses 
brightly caparisoned, and long, erect whips brushing 
the trees which arch the road. Mowers and reapers and 
stump-pullers are also often encountered, driven and 
attended by the shrewd inventors, or the wide-awake 
agents of the manufacturers ; and with these motley 
elements mingle the gaudy wagons of the soap-sellers, 
the razor-strop men, and Yankee prototypes of the 
class which Dr. Marigold rej^resents in English litera- 
ture, and the mysterious covered vans which hide the 
wonders of the snake-show, the wild men of Borneo, 
the fit woman, or the five-legged cow. 

We need not sketch the scene which is formed, or 
the incidents which follow, when all these elements, 
and more, commingle within the enclosure of the fair- 
ground. The ploughing-match ; the cavalcade ; the 
crowded hall with its heterogeneous collection of nee- 
dle-work and big squashes, triumphs of the jack-knife 
and miracles of pastel painting ; the harsh cries of 



CATTLE-SHOWS. 25 

the doorkeepers of the booths, and the venders of 
oysters and ten-cent watch-chains ; the wilder shouts 
of the jockeys, and all the furious excitement of the 
trotting, — combine to impress the imagination, and 
linger in the memory, of the farmer's boy, who hardly 
sees the sun go down on the delicious day before he be- 
gins to look forward to the next September cattle-show. 
And for the slower-going veteran of the society there 
are the luxuries of ins23ection and comparison along 
the rows of lowing cattle, the study of the principles 
of the new tedder, the chat with the friend from the 
next town, not seen since the last year's fair, the pub- 
lic dinner, with its profusion of honest home viands, 
and the oratory which follows it, when the governor, 
or the senator, or the famous preacher, or the aspiring 
politician, whom the trustees have secured from the 
outside world to grace the occasion, tells the assem- 
bled comj^any of the nobility of agriculture, and the 
superiority, over all other fascinations, of the charms 
of a farmer's life. 

The cattle-show, with the variations in detail which 
localities or tastes dictate, has become as general and 
as firmly established an institution as the Thanks- 
giving Day, which shares with it the honors of the 
autumn. We rejoice to see that this year brings no 
sign of its decadence in popularity, and no new sign 
of the demoralizing influence which many have feared 
in the disproportionate importance given to trials of 
the speed of horses. It is probable that the fair 
will have its nps and downs, to be traced to a mul- 
titude of causes ; but we have firm faith in its con- 
tinuance, unimpaired in favor or in usefulness, while 
'New England retains its character as a community, 
and while the land gives its best fruits to the best 
farmer. 

2 



26 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 



CHRISTMAS MORNING. 

The little stocking by the cliimney-corner. The 
Puritan hatred for the Old World holiday, and the 
grim record of the first 25th of December spent on 
New England shores, "So no man rested all that 
day." The mistletoe, and the merry impudence and 
coy modesty beneath it. The goose. The houseless 
wanderer, and the duty of giving a gleam of cheerful- 
ness to his sad day. Green wreaths smiling from 
every window. The great service done by Mr. Dick- 
ens's genial stories. The tree glittering with candles, 
and loaded with pretty things. Crowded markets 
and brisk trade. The pudding, the walnuts, and the 
wine. Mrs. Peerybingle and the cricket on the hearth. 
The great festival day at the English theatres, and 
the new extravagances of the latest clown and panta- 
loon. Young cheeks ruddy with pleasure, and old 
wrinkles rippling with enjoyment. The wassail-bowl 
of old days. Santa Claus loaded with gifts. The 
minstrels singing carols outside the window. The 
crisp air without and the yule-log within. Old enmi- 
ties healed, and long fricndsliii3S renewed and fresh- 
ened. Scrooge and Mr. Fezziwig, Bob Cratchit and 
Tiny Tim. " God bless us every one ! " 

We have not written the journalist's Christmas ser- 
mon ; but we have given the materials of which scores 
of such articles are made every year, and of which 
scores will be made to-day ; and each of our readers 
may adorn the frame-work to suit himself. The boy 
who found the dissected map or the locomotive blocks 
in his stocking, an hour ago, will show them how the 
task is to be done. But while the incidents and the 
phrases of Christmas-tide are so old as to be known 



SUMMER AT THE SEASIDE. 27 

by heart to all of us, the lesson of the day is as new as 
the sunrise Avhich lighted the frosty hills this morning. 
There is no man or woman who can con it too often. 
It is not a lesson of laziness, or personal jDleasure, or 
selfish enjoyment. It is a lesson of effort and thought- 
fulness and kindness and charity ; of a, warm hand, a 
tender heart, a cheering word, an oj^en purse. But 
the day itself is the best text ; and the thoughts 
which its associations will bring to every reader's 
heart are better than any sermon which the types can 
preach. 



SUMMER AT THE SEASIDE. 

The sea-shore has one advantage over all the other 
rivals for favor in the summer vacation. He who so- 
journs there avoids the chief of the discomforts of 
summer, — he keejDS cool. There are days in every 
year when the wanderer in the country village feels 
as great a desire to take off his flesh and sit in his 
bones as does the toiler in the city ; when the lack 
of shady sides to the streets is felt to be an unpar- 
donable drawback; when it is neither merciful nor 
safe to take the horse from his stall for a drive ; and 
when night, in the small, low rooms, with their im- 
practicable windows, is less tolerable than day. At 
the mountains, such days have no cool moments ex- 
cej^t on the very summit ; and the exertion necessary 
to reach the breezy height is not to be thought of. 
As for the springs, compensating Kature has some- 
how provided that, wherever the earth flows "^ith 
medicine ready mixed, the sun shall beat down with 
greater heat than anywhere else, so as to make medi- 



28 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

cine a necessity. But by the sea, in our climate, if 
one chooses his place well, there is always freedom 
from the torment of the hot day. Places which have 
a land breeze are to be avoided; and spots nearly 
surrounded by salt water are to be sought. Then, 
with the tide twice a day washing everything clean 
and cool, with the night always bringing fresh winds, 
which whisper counsel of flannels and overcoats, with 
the bath and the boat ever at hand, one may live 
from June to September without once realizing that 
it is summer, without once feeling the impulse to con- 
sult the thermometer for sympathy. 

There is a certain degree of freedom, inseparable 
fi'om the sea, which also gives a residence on the 
shore a special charm. Dames wedded to fashion may 
wear silks and diamonds to breakfast in the country, 
as they may at Niagara or Saratoga, and rustle all 
day in the armor of stiffness and ceremony. But 
whoever ventures upon a salt-water bath surrenders 
in the act something of conventionality; and Mrs. 
Grundy and Flora McFlimsey alike descend to the 
level of common humanity when they run from the 
bathing-house across the beach like timid scarecrows, 
and rise from the first embrace of the surf dripping, 
and divested of every vestige of the dignity which is 
borrowed from elaborate apparel. After being bowled 
over by the same wave, or after being rocked in the 
same yacht, people feel an acquaintance, an instinct 
even of friendship, which is not produced by riding 
up a mountain in the same stage, by drinking nau- 
seous water from the same dipper, or by dancing to- 
gether all night in the same set. Thus there is grad- 
ually created a sort of family feeling among the guests 
of a sea-shore house, which may be looked for in vain 
among the boarders at inland resorts, even at the end 
of a summer of close contact. 



SUMMER AT THE SEASIDE. 29 

Of course, there are drawbacks to be set against 
these special advantages, and the scores of others 
which might be named in a more elaborate essay 
upon the charms of seaside hfe. First and chief is 
likely to be the meagreness of the table, after the 
rich flavor of the chowder, and the dainty relish of 
the mackerel fresh from the hook, begin to pall upon 
the palate. He who has chosen with great care the 
sandy spit or rocky island which gives the best as- 
surance of cool air, is aj^t to discover presently that 
the location so eligible in this respect is not suited 
to the production of milk in j^lenty, of eggs in fresh- 
ness, of fruit and vegetables in the haj^jDy medium 
of i^erfect rii^eness, even of tender steak or plump 
chickens. There are cii'cumstances under which a 
hearty appetite is an aggravation, and the hungry 
convalescent looks back reluctantly to the days when 
he was content with a slice of toast and a cujd of 
tea. It may be set down, also, on this side of the 
account, that the sea has dangers which the land 
knows not, which cause nervous mammas to spend 
long days of misery in aj)prehension lest the adven- 
turous boy should be swept beyond his depth, should 
be seized by an untimely cramp, should be knocked 
from his boat by some unruly boom, or should be 
jerked off the pier by some strong-mouthed fish at 
the end of his line. 

But, on the whole, the charms have a decided pre- 
ponderance over the drawbacks ; and few, at least of 
that large portion of mankind who are born, as Charles 
Dickens was, with a liking for things maritime, ever 
leave the sea-shore disappointed. The roar of the 
surf, which is like no other sound in the world, and 
always strikes upon the ear with a new grandeur; 
the sunsets more brilliant, and moonrises more ten- 



30 SOCIAL AND LITERAEY TOPICS. 

der than the city or the country ever sees ; the gentle 
romance which ever invests the passing-ship, and the 
grace which belongs to the roughest oarsman or the 
most disreputable yacht, when seen at a distance; the 
invigoration of the plunge into water which buoys 
UJ3 and encourages the swimmer as no pond or river 
can ; the gentle interest of a search for rare shells ; 
the joys of a swift voyage on a craft bending piquantly 
under the topsail till the wave kisses the gunwale, 
yet answering the helm with superb promptness ; the 
very flavor of a blue-fish, which an hour ago was 
lounging along in the cool comfort of deep soundings, — 
all these are joys which the sea-shore monoj^olizes, and 
which no milHonnaire has yet been able to transfer to 
the country seat or the city mansion. 



COMPOUNDING FELONIES. 

At the proper interval after the last great bank rob- 
bery we have the usual croj) of the reports about the 
robbers and the detectives which experience has made 
familiar. The burglars are known, but they are not 
to be punished. The officers of justice are after the 
thieves, but they are not to be expected to treat them 
uncivilly. If we are to believe half of what we read on 
every side, nothing is so easy as to find out who are the 
men engaged in an operation like that upon the Boyls- 
ton Bank, and nothing is so absurd as to expect that 
they will pay any penalty for what they have done. 
The Boston detectives have only to ask their friends, 
the New York detectives, to inform them who of tlieir 
intimate associates, the New York thieves, have been 



COMPOUNDING FELONIES. 31 

away from home for the past few weeks, and the secret 
is discovered. But nothing follows according to old- 
fashioned ideas of the relations of a policeman and a 
thief "Negotiations are opened," instead of traps 
being set. No such ngly word as " crime " is uttered. 
An arrest would be an insult to a man carrying in his 
pocket what entitles him to respect. A web of mys- 
tery is woven. All parties concerned go about with 
their fingers on their lips. And by and by, when the 
hurried public has forgotten the matter, the man who 
has been j^hmdered receives back a small share of his 
property, and thinks himself lucky ; the police officer 
gets his share, and thinks himself a hero ; and the 
burglar plunges into riotous living with his share, 
knowing there are more strong boxes to be plundered 
when that is gone. The detectives of his city know 
his comings and goings; but if he disappears from the 
surface for a while, they do not follow and capture him 
at his work, but make a note of the fact, to be used 
in opening negotiations when they are again needed. 

Now, all these parties in interest think any reflection 
upon their way of doing things is harsh and unkind. 
The widow who has lost her all, and longs to see a little 
of it back, feels any censure of the means adopted as 
an added injury. The policeman who helps her to 
some of her money thinks he should be praised and 
not scolded for the relief he has brought her. With 
what the burglar's opinion is we need not concern 
ourselves. But there is another party in interest who 
takes but a little space in the summary, yet whose 
rights should not be overlooked. It is a class to 
which the owners of the lost bonds, now naturally 
striving their utmost to save a plank from the wreck, 
belonged a week ago : we mean the public. 

Any confusion of argument in this affair, and affairs 



32 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

like this which are constantly coming up, arises from 
the fact that there are two opposing interests. It is 
the interest of the losers by the robbery to recover a 
part of their losses, whatever may become of the rob- 
bers. Tt is the interest of those liable to loss by future 
robberies that the culprits be arrested and punished, 
whatever may become of their plunder. All so far is 
clear. But when the interests of these two parties, 
diametrically opposed to each other, are put in the 
hands of the same agents, injustice and wrong are 
the result. The tax-payer pays the detective very 
meagrely to keep watch of thieves for the sake of 
frustrating their designs and of bringing them under 
the reach of the law. The loser — who is also an in- 
dividual tax-payer, and feels that he has a claim on the 
help of the common servant — is ready to pay munifi- 
cently any detective who shall turn his w^atchfulness 
of thieves to account in bargaining with them for 
their booty. It takes no skill to work out the equa- 
tion. The loser is sometimes assisted. The criminal 
is hardly ever punished. 

Now, it is the system which is wrong. We are far 
from saying that, in this particular case, if the detec- 
tives were to turn their attention that way, the dealer 
in fictitious bitters and his accomplices might be 
brought into the dock if the quarter of a million in 
dollars were to be sacrificed. But we do say that, so 
long as the detectives act in this double capacity, great 
robberies will be committed, will never be foiled in 
the act, and will never result in that punishment 
which bears a fruit of safety for time to come. When 
the two labors are made distinct ; when the servants 
of the public give their whole time and thought and 
energy to the preventing of robberies in contempla- 
tion, and the detection of crimes once done ; when the 



THE SLEIGHING SEASON. 33 

private sufferers have to call on private enterprise to 
help them in getting back their lost possessions, — 
when these changes come, we shall see a different 
state of affairs. 



THE SLEIGHIKG SEASOK 

Winter, ruler of the inverted year, 

A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 

A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, 

But urged b}^ storms along its slippery "way, 

1 love thee." Cowper. 

" Hear the sledges with the bells — 
Silver bells, — 
What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle 

In the icy air." Edgar A. Poe. 

One does not know a man thoroughly until one has 
seen him when the dinner is late and the soup 
scorched, and also after a good dinner, with his 
children about him. Just so it is impossible justly to 
understand a city until the visitor has become fa- 
miliar with its wi'etched quarter, — its Five Points, 
or Ghetto, or St. Giles's, — and has tested the charms 
of its favorite drive. Every city has a pet drive of some 
sort ; and though a large majority of its inhabitants 
never see this feature of its life, nor know any excur- 
sion for pleasure but that of the rumbling horse-car or 
palpitating steamboat, yet the minority who do enjoy 
it is made up of such notable and characteristic ele- 
ments that it must be seen before the city is ap^Dre- 
ciated. The drives of the world have a local flavor, a 
marked individuality, which does not belong to the 
theatres, the dinners, the shops, the markets, or any- 
thing else by which a stranger makes up his impres- 
2* c 



34 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

sions. We might speak of the quaint, easy vehicle of 
Montreal, and the view of the city from the mountain; 
the brilliant, deliberate pageant of the Avenue at 
Newport, where everybody that is anybody has a foot- 
man in livery, and to look behind is to forfeit caste as 
fatally as did Lot's wife ; the rattle and dash of the 
trip to the Lake, at Saratoga, with its memorable and 
monotonous fried potatoes ; the perfect shell road at 
Savannah, where the gray moss hanging from the 
trees gives an air of romance and melancholy to the 
scene, but where the staidest horse strikes involun- 
tarily a gait of a dozen miles an hour, or faster, and 
his hoofs ring against the hard surface like castanets ; 
the spacious Cliff Llouse Road at San Francisco, 
where the goal is the glittering Pacific ; the versatile 
charms of the sedate and elegant Central Park drives, 
and the swifter fascinations of the way to Blooming- 
dale, to suit the diverse tastes of the great metropolis ; 
the dusty, sad, beautiful journey across the Long 
Bridge and about Arlington, the dome of the Capitol 
ever present like a fairy castle in the distance, and 
every rod of the way burdened with tragic and heroic 
memories ; or the more fashionable direction through 
Fourteenth Street in the same city, where senators are 
as plenty as fence-posts; the indescribable grandeur 
of the four-mile stretch along Nantasket Beach at low 
tide, where the music of the surf fills the soul with a 
noble rapture, where the firm sand barely takes the 
print of the wheels, where water-nymphs in blue flan- 
nel splash close by the carriage, and the scudding sails 
carry the thoughts away to distant countries ; the new 
glory of the ride along Wabash Avenue in Chicago to 
the boulevard that is to be, and back by the lake, with its 
warp of railroad tracks and its border of palaces; the 
lovely view from the high ground overlooking Rich- 



THE SLEIGHING SEASON. 35 

mond and the James, once seen, never to be forgotten, 
— some or all of these will occur to the reader who 
has travelled in his own land, and many others to 
those familiar with scenes abroad, as proofs of what 
we have tried to say of the distinct, individualized 
traits of the drives of different cities. 

All these may be enjoyed at the favorable season of 
summer or autumn ; but there are few cities which 
know the luxury of a sleighing-road, or have such 
opportunity to enjoy it as to impress it with the char- 
acteristics of their owm life. Evanescent everywhere, 
excej)t in those rural regions which know the sober 
reality of " six weeks' .sleighing in March," the snow 
very rarely visits I^ew York so as to be more than a 
tantalizing glimpse of a melting opportunity, too coy 
to be caught between clearing off and thaw. In the 
cities south of New York it is little more than a tra- 
dition, a miracle of so rare occurrence that the means 
are never at hand to improve it. It is only Boston 
which has a sleighing carnival as a regular incident of 
the year, like the coming of the tragedian, or the 
ripening of the strawberries, to be anticipated and 
provided for and made much of. And even in Boston 
there is a rarity and uncertainty about it, — dreadful 
memories of winters when the cutter never left the 
stable-loft, a likelihood that he who stops to think about 
it will lose his chance, — which, indeed, add not a little 
to the charm, as they add a great deal to the expense. 

One great advantage of this feature of Boston life 
is its concentration. There are so many agreeable 
summer drives in the zone of villages which encircles 
the city, that one may ride about from June to Octo- 
ber and never meet his neighbor. But Avhen sleighing 
comes, everybody hurries to one centre. The prince 
and the peasant — which is a poetic way of referring to 



36 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

the dignified merchant and the vociferous jockey — 
head their teams for the same destination. The na- 
bob, with his heavy, hulking span, cautious driver, 
and profuse provision of robes and furs, and the spend- 
thrift with his lean, shorn, showy steed, his frail shell 
and frailer companion, both contrive to be on the 
Brighton Road at the popular hour just before sunset ; 
and it is this unanimity of choice, this tacit agree- 
ment upon place and time, which makes the sight to 
be seen there one of the most brilliant and exciting 
living panoramas which America possesses, the sensa- 
tion of a first visit there one which no visitor should 
miss, which it is worth a special journey from afar to 
enjoy. It is an experience which we can only hint at 
rather than describe. 

In tlie first place, those who have the pleasure yet 
before them should dismiss all anticipation of being 
particularly struck by the attractions which nature 
furnishes. Boston has in its suburbs an infinite vari- 
ety of beautiful scenery ; but the Brighton Mile and 
the road by which it is reached from the city have not 
such charms as to impress the beholder very strongly 
through the veil which winter spreads over land and 
water. The dazzling splendor of fresh-fallen snow, 
the wholesome intoxication of clear, frosty air, — these 
are the chief natural beauties; and man has done 
nothing but build the prosaic, forbidding houses and 
commonplace fences of that dullest phase of New 
England which is neither country nor city. The 
sleigh-riders bring with them the joys which they 
seek. There is a rare exhilaration in the spectacle of 
the crowded ground, dense with sleighs as far as the 
eye can see, a narrow strij) in the middle compara- 
tively clear for the faster ones to dash up and down 
at the utmost speed of their horses, two lines on each 



THE SLEIGHING SEASON. 37 

side of quieter parties, jogging along as steadily as at 
Newport. A fine horse never looks so well as when 
newly clipped, his light burden scarcely perceptible 
behind him on the smooth track, his senses all aroused 
by the proximity of the noblest of his kind, the jingle 
of the bells, and the brisk, bracing atmosphere. With 
all the variety which wealth and ingenuity can give 
in wheeled vehicles, there is never the graceful pic- 
turesqueness so simply to be attained in the curves 
and tints of the sleigh. A pretty w^oman never looks 
so well as in the inspiring hour of the sleigh-ride, in 
the fleeting moment before her nose reddens too 
deeply, and her tresses are blown into too palpable 
disorder. There is no such background in art or na- 
ture as the crisp snow, setting out everything admira- 
ble in as bold relief as that of Konewka's silhouettes. 

With such reasons as these for the enjoyment 
which the stranger may feel, the habitue of the road 
has the pleasure of the recognition of the faces of peo- 
ple, whose heterogeneous mixture has all the eflTect 
of the perpetual astonishments of the kaleidoscope. 
There is not to be seen here the Boston of the Dick- 
ens reading, of the Fechter benefit, of the oratorio, or 
the Emerson lecture ; but there is a mingling not a 
whit the less delightful to look upon. Drawn by one 
common taste, which is the only thing possessed in 
common, here are the veteran politician, the tranquil 
gambler, the lady of foshion, and the lady whom soci- 
ety ignores, the journalist, the merchant, the actor, 
the preacher, the dowager, the sophomore, the college 
president, each with his turn-out in harmony with his 
tastes or his pocket-book, and not one without a cer- 
tain pride and pleasure in the presence of the rest. 
Then the butcher-boy and the expressman have as 
good a right to the road as anybody, and their occa/- 



38 SOCIAL AND LITEEARY TOPICS. 

sional transit adds a ^^I'actical but not disagreeable 
element to the motley company ; while now and then 
a comet whirls through the constellations in the shape 
of a tandem team, or other eccentricity, or the gor- 
geous trappings and liveries which the spoils of a 
stolen railroad have paid for. 

There are many other features of the scene which 
we cannot touch upon, even incidentally : the possible 
pause at the wayside inn, where one seems transi3orted 
into the iDrimitive Avays of fifty years ago, and where 
flip and punch flow freely in apparent universal uncon- 
sciousness of the statutes framed under the dome a 
few miles away ; the hot moment of excitement when 
a runaway pair darts down into the labyrinth, smash- 
ing and wounding as it goes, and giving that tang of 
danger which, to some natures, adds the highest zest 
to any enjoyment; the wild shouts of the racing men, 
who begin to claim the road for their own as sunset 
approaches, and the slower classes retire to their wait- 
ing dinner-tables, — the reader's memory or his imagi- 
nation must supply all these things. For, lo! the 
next morning dawns, and a thaw has set in, or the thin 
snow has been worn out with one afternoon's multitu- 
dinous use ; and only by the memory or the imagina- 
tion can be commanded the transient pleasures of a 
sleighing afternoon on the Brighton Road. 



WOMEN IN MEDICAL SCHOOLS. 

The medical students of Philadelphia have done 
more than any institution of medicine has yet done, 
have accomplished more than any orator of the cause 
of woman's rights has yet effected, towards the free 



WOMEN IN MEDICAL SCHOOLS. 39 

admission of women to the study and practice of 
medicine. By their demonstrations of turbulence, 
their shouting, and stamping of feet, their attempts to 
insult the women seeking instruction in their lecture- 
room, they have supplied an argument, not logical 
but powerful, which has been used with great effect, 
and will be prized as an invaluable weapon for a long 
time to come. Students of medicine generally have 
never been esteemed a class of the community to 
whom we should look for teaching or example on 
great and delicate j)oints of moral questions. Though 
from their ranks must come the men whom we honor 
and respect almost above any other profession, and to 
whom we intrust our lives and the welfare of our 
families, yet upon doctors in the embryo there has 
always been a disposition to look with something of 
distrust. The Bob Sawyer and Sam Huter of the 
novelists have been types of the prejudices of a world 
of readers. But setting aside this antipathy, for which 
an abundance of reasons might be assigned upon anal- 
ysis, there is a grossness and bitterness of persecution 
about the conduct of the young men in Philadelphia 
which produces a great sympathy with the persecuted 
in the outside world. All good things, it is argued, 
have been reviled and mobbed in their beginning; 
therefore anything which excites the opposition of 
the mob-spirit is good. And straightway we have a 
great deal of encouragement and support from all 
quarters for the undertaking of young women to study 
anatomy and disease in the company of young men. 

But such an inference is not always safe ; and there- 
fore we are glad to see the real question at issue 
calmly and fairly put by the physicians of Philadel- 
phia. The professors of two institutions for medical 
instruction, the officers of ten hospitals, and over 



40 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

seventy doctors in active practice, join nnanimonsly 
in signing this paper, protesting against clinical in- 
struction to mixed classes of male and female students 
of medicine. The reasons which they give, guarded 
and reserved as they must be in their expression, seem 
unanswerable. So long as no reformer can abolish 
the fict of sex, it is difficult to see how any sincere 
demand can be made for the examination, in the pres- 
ence of young men and maidens sitting together as 
pupils, of all the organs of the body, and a perform- 
ance of all the operations of surgery upon patients of 
both sexes. But if in the progress of the age the quali- 
ties of womanliness and modesty, as ourflithers under- 
stood them, are so far lost in some cases that such a 
demand is made, it is right that it should be resisted : 
justice to the teacher, to the patient, to the student, 
to the interests of science, all require it; and the sanc- 
tity of Avomanhood requires it no less, though women 
may be found, influenced by ambition and enthusiasm, 
who themselves forget it. And when resistance comes, 
it is infinitely better that it should come with the 
voice of dignity and experience, as in the remonstrance 
of the physicians of PhiladeliDhia, than in the clamor 
of a rabble. 

It can hardly fail to be understood that this discus- 
sion has no bearing on the question of the right of 
women to study and practise medicine, and of the pro- 
priety of their entering the profession if they choose. 
There are certain classes of cases for which they seem 
j^eculiarly fitted, many others in which they have equal 
qualifications with men. But so long as there is a class 
of cases in which they could never be called to attend, 
it is unjustifiable for them to intrude themselves upon 
and embarrass the study of such cases ; and so long 
as sex exists it is simply right that they should pursue 
some of their studies by themselves. 



"OUR SOCIETY." 41 



"OUR SOCIETY." 

"If gilt were only gold, or sugar-candy common-sense, what a fine 
thing our society woiild be ! " — George William Curtis. 

" 'T is pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print.*' 

Byron. 

TwEXTY years ago a brilliant essayist, in the first 
flush of his youthful eloquence, wrote a pungent paper 
beginning with the words we have quoted above, ex- 
posing the emptiness, the frivolity, the intellectual 
squalor, amid the utmost splendor wealth could com- 
mand, which characterized what called itself " Our 
Best Society " in those days. The essay appeared in 
"Putnam's Monthly," and was town-talk for many 
weeks ; it did more to make its author famous than 
the two delightful books of Eastern travel he had 
previously published ; and, with the series of papers 
which followed it, analyzing more in detail the char- 
acter of Mrs. Potiphar and her friends, it made his 
place in American literature secure. But what would 
he have done had he the motive and the cue for satire 
that we have ? Surely he would not fail to — 

" ^lake mad the guilty and appall the free, 
Confound the ignorant, and amaze, indeed, 
The very faculties of eyes and ears." 

For we have before us a journal — a handsome sheet 
issued in the best style of modern printing — called 
" Our Society," the revelations of which cast every- 
thing disclosed about the circle of Mrs. Potiphar en- 
tirely into the shade. 

We could wish, if it were possible, to give our 
readers in small space an adequate idea of this publica- 
tion, as the " London Times " w^as photographed down 
to the size of a fig-leaf for its journey to Paris in the 
days of the siege. But of such a result we despair, 



42 SOCIAL AND LITERAEY TOPICS. 

since it is a quarto sheet of ten closely printed pages, 
not one line of which can be spared from a perusal 
which shall give a clear concejition of its character, — 
so full is each paragraph of the spirit of the whole, 
and yet so charged with new surprises to the reader 
in the development of possibilities of which he had 
not dreamed. We must rely, therefore, ujDon such 
general description and such meagre extracts as we 
can give to convey an approximate notion of one of 
the most amazing social phenomena of our time. But 
before attempting even this we must premise that this 
is no exceptional and eccentric freak of a moment, 
which it is best to pass by with a glance. Strange fish 
come into the net of the newspaper exchange list ; 
and from much of it it is not safe to generalize. There 
is the " National Moonly Voice," for example, a sheet 
of stark, staring lunacy, Avhich comes to us from some- 
where in New Jersey : it is not just to infer from it that 
the editor addresses an audience to whom his madness 
seems to have method, or that there is a community 
in New Jersey, where, to borrow from " Hamlet " once 
more, it is no great matter, for all the men are as mad 
as he. " Our Society" is no such fruit of the folly of 
a day. The number before us is the twenty-first of 
the series ; its comely and costly dress indicates sub- 
stantial prosperity; its managers have advanced the 
price of advertising in its columns a hundred per cent 
since it was established ; and, moreover, we have the 
testimony of eighty newsdealers of New York that 
they sell regularly more copies of this than of any 
other weekly paper upon their stands. 

It is worth while, therefore, to make this paper the 
subject of a serious analysis. And in the first place 
it is, not only handsomely printed, as we have said, 
but it is printed upon pajoer of a delicate " tea-rose 



" OUR SOCIETY." 43 

shade," — the latest achievement of the skill of the 
manuflicturer, devised expressly for the peculiar needs 
of this journal, and quite impossible to imitate. Hard- 
ly have we recovered from the effect of this discov- 
covery, when we are electrified by another, — that the 
second distinguishing feature of the paper is its bad 
grammar. Hardly a sentence in its editorial columns 
is without some hideous inelegance, some word wrong- 
ly used, some tangling of relatives and pronouns. 
Tea-rose shade, and wretched English, flavored with 
worse French, — what could be abetter introduction 
to "Our Society"? 

We despair of giving our readers any notion of the 
contents of the paper, except by reproducing them ; 
and yet we shrink from copying the names it so freely 
gives in full, lest here and there one of them may 
have been used without the consent of the owner. 
The public is informed that Mr. Eugene So-and-so — 
his residence appended to prevent any mistake — is " a 
general favorite among ladies." Miss Louise Blank, 
a few lines farther on, " has hosts of admirers among 
the young gentlemen. She is entitled to them." There 
is a curious gradation of compliment in these brief 
references to ladies, of which the first page of " Our 
Society" has about eighty. One is " both witty and 
musical " ; another is " noted for her beautiful hair, 
au naturel^ also for her musical talent"; a third is 
" quite a favorite among the military gentlemen of 
the navy-yards"; another is " a general Society favor- 
ite"; and to two married ladies wdio are named is 
awarded the honor, which we take to be the highest 
" Our Society" can confer, of being " considered the 
most distingue ladies in our city." It is not confined 
to belles, this sort of gentle adulation. Male creatures 
have it. " Mr. Harry Dash is one of the handsomest 



44 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

Benedicts in our city." Churches are flattered, — not 
for the good work they do, however. "It is acknowl- 
edged that more handsome ladies attend the Church 
of the Heavenly Rest than any other church of its 
size in New York." Note how carefully that qualifi- 
cation, " of its size," was put in, to avoid any possible 
jealousy among the churches on this point. Children 
also are judiciously tickled. " Master Clifford Asterisk, 
at the Metropolitan Hotel, is a special favorite with 
all who know him." Imagine the influence upon the 
mind of a nice little boy of such a paragraph ! But 
we are convinced that we know nothing about the 
children of Society (our paper always prints this 
mystic word with a capital letter), when we read 
in the column of "Receptions," that a certain enter- 
tainment at a " palatial home " was " given in honor 
of Master Charley's third birthday"; that about 
seventy-five young masters and misses were present ; 
that " the supper was superb, and the music all that 
could be desired," with further details about the 
flowers presented to Charley by the "young lady" 
guests, and names of the "Masters" whom "we 
noticed " as present. 

" Can such things be, 
And overcome us hke a summer's cloud, 
Without our special wonder? " 

But we have not reached the end yet. A little 
further on is an elaborate account of a " brilliant re- 
ception " on the occasion of " the debut of Fanchon, a 
superb and sweet-faced doll." This doll, we learn, had 
a trousseau of over five hundred pieces, including an 
elegant Indian shawl, imported expressly for it, and 
everything that goes to make up " a Society lady's 
wardrobe." It was a gift to "a little Miss oi four 
years " ; and we are told, in defiance of all our ex- 



"OUR SOCIETY." 45 

perience of children of that age, that she " highly- 
appreciated " the toy. And then the narrative goes 
on to catalogue the diamonds, satins, court trains, and 
point laces of the ladies who Avere i^resent at this 
worthy celebration. 

After all this there is a peculiar shock in reading 
that Mrs. Somebody of Cincinnati " has been greatly 
missed from Society this winter, from which she 
has retired since the death of her little child." Do 
little children, then, die in Society ? What a pity 
they are not all sweet -faced dolls, who may be 
packed in cotton and preserved without trouble, or, 
if lost, replaced without inconvenient and troublesome 
mourning ! 

We cannot go through all the departments of this 
astonishing journal in detail. We notice that a grace- 
ful writer in one j^lace, speaking of the gentlemanly 
floor-managers at a certain ball, remarks that " to say 
that they were not energetic in their efforts to please 
would indeed be superfluous." We pause also at a 
request that, if any representative of " Our Society," 
being an invited guest at any entertainment, violates 
the strictest decorum in any way, the editor may be 
at once informed of the fact. Have we not seen a 
similar notice at the foot of some bills of fare, having 
reference to the waiters ? Here is another warning, 
too savage to be particular about grammar: "Any 
party sending us false information, whether used or 
not, will be published in an editorial and full address 
given." There is a column for " Our Approaching 
Marriages," in which various engagements are given 
uj^on rumor, and a fair proportion of the betrothals 
announced the week before are contradicted, or de- 
clared " premature." A popular " evangelical " church 
on a fashionable avenue is puffed, not only for the 



46 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

eloquence of the preacher, but for the music and the 
flowers, and a list is given of the more fashionable 
people present. And as we read this, and glance over 
the five or six hundred feminine toilets described, or 
rather catalogued, in the different departments of the 
paper, we are driven to the conclusion that it is the 
people themselves Avho report these things. It is Mrs. 
Fifth Avenue who writes out an account of her party, 
and casually mentions that the host gave entire carte 
hlcmche to the caterer. It is perhaps not the Ilev. 
Boanerges Thunder wdio sends in a notice of the 
beauty and dress represented in his congregation, but 
it is somebody in his confidence. Perhaps it is not 
Miss Fanny Frivolous who contributes to " Our So- 
ciety " the information that that young lady " is known 
as a brilliant conversationalist," but it is surely done 
by her lover ; and is not this a modern improvement 
on the old style of sending a painful sonnet " To F. 
F." to the poet's corner of a newspaper ? and may we 
not expect that for the next number a soft feminine 
hand will confide to the editor of "Our Society" 
the information that Mr. Augustus Spoonbill parts 
his hair very accurately in the middle, and is celebrated 
for his delicate lisp and overpowering manners? But 
" Our Society " is altogether too droll to be successfully 
parodied ; and, on the other hand, it is in some views 
too serious a matter to be laughed at. And so we 
leave such a faint sketch as w^e have been able to 
make of it for the edification of our readers, — tea- 
rose shade, clumsy grammar, doll's parties, enormous 
circulation, and all. 



THE LECTURERS. 47 



THE LECTURERS. 

" Happily to steer 
From grave to gay, from lively to severe." 

Pope's Ussay on Man. 

" How the subject theme may gang, 
Let time and chance determine; 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 
Perhaps, turn out a sermon." 

BuK^'s's Ejoistle to a Young Friend. 

It is fashionable to sneer at the motley programmes 
of the variety theatres, where the trapeze and the 
comic song, the concentrated melodrama and the 
educated mice, the Arab from the desert and the lady 
on parlor skates, follow each other in rapid suc- 
cession on the same crowded evening. But the mix- 
ture is not more heterogeneous than that made up by 
most respectable committees, who sell with one piece 
of pasteboard the right to hear Mr. Beecher and to 
see Mrs. Scott-Siddons ; to listen to General Butler on 
the charms of war and to Mr. Sumner on the glories 
of peace ; to be thrilled by Wendell Phillips, charmed 
by George William Curtis, and convulsed by Petro- 
leum V. Nasby. It is quite like one of Dr. Marigold's 
irresistible parcels, — a j^air of razors, a flatiron, a 
frying-pan, a genuine chronometer watch, and a half- 
dozen dinner-plates. Does nobody bid?' Then the 
enterj^rising committee adds an orchestral concert and 
an evening with the stereopticon, and sells its season- 
tickets for two dollars, just as the Cheap Jack throws 
in a rolling-pin and a looking-glass, and then names a 
price so low that everybody opens his eyes with 
wonder, and makes a bid in spite of himself. After 
the marvellous combinations of this kind with which 
custom has made us familiar, the sense of the harmony 



48 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

of things is too far dulled to be seriously shocked by 
the announcement, made not long since by a Western 
manager, that the same fifty cents would cover ad- 
mission to a lecture by Mr. Emerson and to a dance 
at the village hotel to follow the intellectual enter- 
tainment. Even the appearance upon the lecture 
platform of a conspirator against the life of Abraham 
Lincoln, taking that infamous j^lot as his theme, has 
hardly disturbed the public equanimity ; and, with a 
few more turns of the wheel of fortune in Europe, we 
might be treated to a programme like this : Unparal- 
leled Attraction ! The World's Star Course ! Open- 
ing Lecture, The Secret History of the Coup d'Etat, 
Louis Napoleon ; Why the Good Cause did not Suc- 
ceed, Jefferson Davis ; How the Empire was Built, 
and the Causes of its Downfall, Count von Bismarck ; 
Flirtation and its Consequences, Isabella ; The True 
Record of the Burdell Affair, Mrs. Cunningham ; The 
Power of the Pulj^it, Mr. Spurgeon ; Grand Con- 
cluding Entertainment, Ode by Victor Hugo, Song by 
Mile. Schneider, Poem by Mr. Swinburne, and brief 
Farewell Address by Mr. Disraeli, on Literature, Criti- 
cism, and Politics. 

Raillery aside, however, there is abundant cause for 
congratulation in the prosperity of the lyceum in 
America, — an institution so peculiarly our own that 
even the word by which we have named it has no 
such meaning across the water. In sj^ite of many 
gloomy prophets, the prosperity of the system grows 
with every year ; and how much it does for popular 
culture and refinement cannot be estimated. To 
be sure, the golden days which Colonel Ingham has 
celebrated in the introduction to one of his clever- 
est stories, when people left their homes on winter 
evenings solely to be instructed and informed, have 



THE LECTURERS. 49 

gone by forever. But as we do not read Shakespeare 
to be instructed, nor Goldsmith to be informed, so 
we may not be ashamed if we go to hear Robert 
Collyer and Mrs. Livermore primarily for the in- 
tellectual entertainment they offer; and, as he who 
knows a little Shakespeare and nothing else is a 
fuller man than he who knows a little algebra and 
nothing else, so he who goes away saturated with the 
earnest eloquence of the Chicago preacher, erst the 
Yorkshire blacksmith, may have spent his evening 
quite as profitably as his neighbor who has listened to 
a summing-up of all the world knows as to geology, 
which the discoveries of the next century may ntterly 
supersede. 

But the great virtue of our lyceum system is in its 
wide range, not in subjects but in territory. The great 
cities have many means of culture. They have great 
libraries, and many journals, theatres, concert-rooms, 
and art-galleries. The lecture is but an incident of 
their crowded winter. In the country towns it is the 
one great event, the single window by which eager 
minds can look into the Avorld of literature and all the 
higher phases of civilization. Miss Nilsson, Mr. Jefi'er- 
son, and Mr. Booth, immense as are the numbers of 
their admirers, are limited to a com2:)aratively narrow 
circle of large cities ; but Mr. Gough packs his sup- 
porting company, his organ and orchestra, his scenery 
and properties, into his carpet-bag, and carries his 
treasury of delight to the little settlements, which 
next year may be cities, in Kansas and Michigan, to 
the thriving communities in Ohio and Indiana, to the 
scores of minor cities between the Alleghanies and the 
Mississippi, and gives to every listener just as rich a 
treat as he gives to the great audiences of New York 
and Philadelphia and Chicago. His fun and his pathos 



50 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

are town-talk in all the little Washington s and Frank- 
lins of the West, just as the fine touches of Mr. 
Church's last picture, and the delicate points of Mr. 
Fechter's Hamlet, are town-talk in London and in 
Boston. And following in his wake, a small army of 
wise and witty men and brilliant women are travel- 
ling up and down the land in the paths arranged by 
the lecture agencies, 

" A mighty maze, but not without a plan," 

as King William's Uhlans were scattered over France. 
The essays they read may not be of the very highest 
order of literary merit : they may work, consciously 
or unconsciously, with a little bolder hand than when 
they write for the cold permanency of a book ; but it 
is something that they are all facing the right way 
(with a few such exceptions as the demagogue who 
strives to excite a people to a needless war, and the 
escaped conspirator who glories in his own crimes), 
and all using such influence as they have for good. 
Miss Kate Field and Mr. Curtis pointing out the 
grandeur of Dickens's genius, Miss Dickinson rehears- 
ing the heroic career of Joan of Arc, may not directly 
utter a single profitable maxim, but they are pointing 
to noble ideals ; and the listener may go away as 
keenly stimulated to a higher ambition and purer life 
than he knew before as if he had heard a sermon on 
the Ten Commandments. Lecturers diflTer, of course, 
as all honest men differ, on a host of subjects ; but 
they are very few in number who go about the coun- 
try ad vocating anything wrong, or petty, or mean, — 
defending the condition of the civil service, for exam- 
ple, or glorifying the career of the barons of Erie ; 
and the man or woman who makes a very serious 
blunder on the platform, either in taste or ethics, very 



THE LECTUEERS. 51 

seldom receives a second invitation from the same 
locality, and so jDasses presently on the shelf, Avhile 
new aspirants are sought for ; and only worthy vet- 
erans kee-p the field. 

Another way of estimating the value of the j^lat- 
form is to reflect how much we owe to it, not in prac- 
tical leadership and the formation and guidance of 
public sentiment, but in personal acquaintance, as it 
were, with men whom their books only half make 
known to the public. How the lad of to-day will 
prize, for example, as he looks back upon it thirty or 
forty years hence, the memor}^ of the night when he 
saw Emerson in the lecture-room, with his grave, 
sweet presence, his gentle yet strong face, through 
which you can see the thoughts strike fire ; his odd 
awkwardness with his manuscript, which is so much 
better than some men's grace and ease ; his rich, pure 
voice, which, without a gesture or a suggestion of elo- 
cution, makes the grandest ^^oetry seem grander in his 
recitation of it ! What a new light on " School-Days 
at Rugby " was enjoyed by those, comparatively few 
in number, in two great cities, who heard Tom Brown 
in the flesh — the same sturdy Tom Brown of the foot- 
ball match, but grown grave and bald in the passing of 
years — trying to reconcile two nations, or telling of 
the struggles of labor ! What is the worth, in dollars 
and cents, of the treasured experience of those who 
saw Thackeray in one of his American tours, and 
heard him tell the story of that Dick Steele whom he 
so loved, or of that Fourth George whom he so de- 
spised? All these priceless things we ow^e to the 
lecture-committee : so let us forgive them if they 
occasionally give a vantage-ground to a charlatan un- 
worthy of a public hearing, or if every feature in their 
programmes does not apj^eal to the highest tastes. 



52 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 



THE DICKENS DINNER OF 1842. 

It is a little more than twenty-five years since 
the visit of Charles Dickens — then a young man, 
the author of "Pickwick" and two or three other 
successful books — created a great sensation in this 
country, and was made the occasion for demonstra- 
tions of cordial hospitality and admiring enthusiasm 
without a parallel in the memories of the people 
or in the experience of their guest. The near 
approach of the same gentleman — himself matured, 
and his fame rounded and made symmetrical by a 
long succession of works, displaying a wider grasp 
and a firmer hand than his early productions — to the 
same community which greeted him before, and which 
also he will find that the hand of change has not left 
untouched, gives a peculiar interest just now to the 
incidents of that memorable first visit. Perhaps the 
whole journey had no more notable occasion than the 
dinner given by " the young gentlemen of Boston " 
to Mr. Dickens, on the first day of February, 1842; 
and we invite our readers to follow us in a search 
among the musty records of that brilliant evening. 
The dinner was spread in the most suitable place 
which the accommodations of that day afibrded, — in 
Mr. Papanti's hall in Tremont Street. The tables were 
" splendidly laid and profusely," — if we may credit the 
glowing report in the "Daily Advertiser and Patriot" 
of the next day but one, — by Mr. Barton, the expe- 
rienced and successful caterer of the Albion. The 
guests numbered about two hundred. The whole 
afiair was in the hands of the young men of the city ; 
and so the Hon. Josiah Quincy, Jr., j^resided at the 
tables, and his assistant vice-presidents were Dr. Oliver 



THE DICKENS DINNER OF 1S42. 53 

Wendell Holmes, and Messrs. George S. Hillnrd, 
Ed^yard G. Loring, and J. Thomas Stevenson. This 
array, we may remark in passing, was considered bril- 
liant even in those youthful days of the distinguished 
men mentioned ; for in the later hours of the evening, 
when wine and wit ran sparkling together, Mr. T. C. 
Grattan, then the British consul at this port, remarked 
that " the president's four vices were equal to the 
four cardinal virtues of any other man." The report 
before us mentions, as active in the management of 
the festival, Messrs. E. H. Eldridge, W. W. Tucker, S. 
A. Appleton, Henry Le«, Jr., and Samuel E. Guild ; 
and in the addresses of some of the letters of apology 
we find the names of George Tyler Bigelow, Nathan 
Hale, Jonathan F. Barrett, Fred. W. Crocker, and W. 
W. Story, who served as the committee of invitation. 
These were the young gentlemen of Boston ; but they 
graciously admitted their seniors to a share in the 
feast ; and so among the invited guests we note Mr. 
President Quincy of Harvard University, even then 
of venerable age ; Governor Davis, whom indisposi- 
tion compelled to retire early, and without making a 
speech ; as well as Washington Allston, Judge War- 
ren, Mayor Chapman, George Bancroft, Richard H. 
Dana, Sr., Franklin Dexter, and Dr. Jacob Bigelow. 
The feast began at five, and the 7iaif reporter ob- 
serves, at another stage of the proceedings, that it 
was " an advanced hour for a dinner-party." The com- 
l^any was formed, and marshalled into the dining-room 
to the strains of " Washington's March," followed 
by "God save the Queen." The Rev. Dr. Parkraan 
invoked a benediction before the removal of the cov- 
ers, and thanked Heaven for the presence of "the dis- 
tinguished stranger." The substantial rej^ast of course 
preceded all further speech-making; and then came 



54 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

toasts and fun and eloquence in rapid succession. The 
most peculiar feature of the dinner, which distin- 
guished it from all other dinners, was that one person- 
age was, at every pause and in every exigency, called 
upon to bring down the com23any with a laugh, and 
made to do a most unfair share of the work of enter- 
tainment. That hardly served personage was Mr. 
Samuel Weller. Did anybody wish to begin his 
speech with a telling point, or end it with a snapper, 
he quoted Sam Weller. Did the j^resident of the 
evening wish to introduce a new speaker effectively, 
or comj^liment one who had just taken his seat, he 
drew upon Sam Weller. Did he wish to brighten up 
the jDarty when somebody had been dull, and the flow 
of soul seemed to flag, he opened the volume of 
"Pickwick," and read a saying of Sam Weller. But 
it should be remembered that Mr. Dickens had writ- 
ten but few books then. The number of his characters 
had not become a multitude : even Micawber and 
Pecksniff" and Tom Pinch did not then exist, to say 
nothing of the still later creations of Wegg and Joe 
Gargery, and the young man of the name of Guppy, 
or even of the Peerybingles and Dr. Marigold, and 
the host of Christmas folk ; so the public made all 
the more of what it had, and fondled Sam Weller and 
Little Nell and Barnaby's Raven all the more affec- 
tionately. 

Mr. Josiah Quincy, Jr., of course, began the speech- 
making ex-officio; and, as in duty bound, was warmly 
and enthusiastically complimentary to Mr. Dickens, 
running pleasantly over the list of his characters, as 
well known on this side of the ocean as in their 
native land, and especially emphasizing the fact 
that in all the novelist's works there was a reforming 
object and a high moral tone, and that they w^ere 



THE DICKENS DINNER OF 1842. 55 

directed against the abuses of the day. He concluded 
with the toast which follows, and which was received 
with tremendous and prolonged cheering, — " Health, 
happiness, and a hearty welcome, to Charles Dickens." 
Mr. Dickens responded with an exceedingly well- 
written address, delivered, in the judgment of our old- 
time reporter, " in a warm, fluent, and manly tone." He 
gracefully expressed his thanks for the welcome given 
him, and said he had dreamed for years by day and by 
night of that visit to America which he had now begun, 
and had come "with all his sympathies clustering richly 
about this land and people." He then spoke, with no 
affectation of modesty in the matter, about his own 
writings, and the theory of the nobility of virtue, how- 
ever poor, and the hatefulness of vice, however rich, 
which he had kept in view in his books. He spoke with 
feeling of an allusion made to " a little heroine of mine 
who died in her youth," whom he seemed to regard 
with peculiar fondness, and told of the letters he had 
received, many fi'om the fir West, giving histories of 
domestic joys or sorrows in which the children — ■ 
generally lost children over whom the mother wept — 
in this or that respect resembled Nell. And then, with 
characteristic oddity of fancy, Mr. Dickens said that 
his entertainers here had no chance of spoiling him ; 
for he felt as though they were merely agreeing about 
third parties, and at every new act of kindness said to 
himself, "'That's for Oliver, — I should not wonder if 
that were meant for Smike, — I have no doubt that is 
intended for Nell ' ; and so I become a much ha])pier, 
certainly, but a more sober and retiring, man than I 
ever was before." The speaker closed by laying par- 
ticular stress on the need of an international copy- 
right between England and America, " firstly, be- 
cause it is justice ; and, secondly, because without it 



56 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

you never can have and keep a literature of your 
own"; and offered the toast, "America and England; 
and may they never have any division but the At- 
lantic between them." 

The president then alluded to the theory that poets 
and painters, in ideal pictures of female loveliness, 
unconsciously sketched the features of her who Avas 
dearest to their hearts, and offered a sentiment in that 
connection which was drunk standing, with three times 
three cheers, " The health of the lady of our distin- 
guished guest. If she were the model of the j^ure and 
elevated females of his works, it might be well said that 
she was the better half even of Charles Dicl^ens." 

Mr. Edward G. Loring spoke eloquently of the 
bonds of union between England and America in their 
common parentage, history, language, and literature, 
and common devotion to liberty. He closed with a 
reference to Harvard College, and a compliment to 
the representative of the University at the banquet. 
" It is n't quite fair, gentlemen : it is n't quite fair," 
began Mr. President Quincy, as the storm of applause 
called him from his seat ; and then he went on Avith a 
speech so apt, so witty, so running over with humor, 
that the genial reflection of its fun was cast over the 
whole remainder of the evening. He said, in regard 
to the idea of his making a speech in such a youthful 
assembly, " I felt like giving myself the same advice 
that Swift gave to the man. Said the man, ' I have 
set up for a wit.' ' Well,' rej^lied Swift, ' I Avould now 
advise you to sit down. ' " A man of threescore and 
ten, he said, should no more be expected to make an 
after-dinner speech than to dance a hornpipe. It re- 
quires Avit as Avell as Avisdom and abundance of imagi- 
nation ; the speech "should be strcAvn Avith roses such 
as are groAvn on the sides of Parnassus ; there should 



THE DICKENS DINNER OF 1842. 57 

be alternate layers of the utile and the dulce ; and on 
the top of all there should be a layer of sugared senti- 
ment." Such a comjDound reqmres both memory and 
fancy ; and an old man has neither. " To an old man 
Memory is an arrant jade, and she is in no way deli- 
cate in letting him know that, like the rest of her sex, 
she gives young men the preference." But he had 
consented to come among the young men this time at 
their urgent solicitation, feeling a curiosity regarding 
the composition of the meeting "much as Sam Weller 
did when he was invited to dine upon veal-pie, — ' A 
weal-pie is a werry nice thing, when you know the 
lady as made it, and are quite sure it ain't kittens.' " 
But none of Mr. Quincy's jokes created so much fun 
as an accident which befell him. As he drew his re- 
marks to 'a close, he fell into a graver strain, and pres- 
ently said, "I will conclude by giving you a toast, 
if my treacherous memory will so far serve me. I will 
give you, Genius^ — in — in — in — " But here the 
venerable gentleman's memory did desert him ; and, 
after striving a moment or so to catch the fugitive 
words, he looked around pleasantly, and said, " Gen- 
tlemen, a good memory is a great thing; and I will 
give you all a piece of advice which it may be useful 
to you to remember : when you are not certain that 
you can keep a thing in your memory, be sure to keep 
it in your pocket." And then, as if to enforce his 
precept by example, Mr. Quincy did draw from his 
own pocket a scrajD of i3aper, and read from the manu- 
script the toast which had eluded him. This set the 
company in a roar : and then Mr. Quincy, Jr., found 
a text approj)riate to the occasion concerning Mr. 
Sam Weller and his father, which set them into 
another roar ; so that it was some time before they 
were sufficiently recovered to listen to the next 
3* 



58 SOCIAL AND LITEEARY TOPICS. 

speaker. This was Mr. George S. Hillard, who took 
up the subject of English literature in an admirable 
address to which no summary can do justice. Mr. 
Thomas C. Grattan, one of whose jokes we have 
quoted above, followed, and, like Mr. Quincy, deemed 
it necessary to apologize for being present at a young 
men's party. He said he had " thought of laying 
some ' flattering unction ' to his hair and whiskers, to 
change their rather equivocal tints," and so, deceiving 
his juvenile friends, to turn Papanti's assembly-room 
into another " Do-the-boys Hall " ; but when he heard 
who was to be tl.Q president of the evening, he saw 
" that the very head and front of oiiending was his as 
well," and thought he would be safe in serving under 
the banner which Mr. Quincy, Jr., hung out. To 
this sally the president retorted by quoting Sam 
Weller, that it was "addin' insult to injury, as the 
parrot said ven they not only took him from his native 
land, but made him talk the English language after- 
wards." Mr. Richard H. Dana, Jr., was then called 
upon, and made only a brief response, as being " among 
the youngest of those present." A requisition was 
next made upon Dr. Holmes, who, "without a single 
apology," favored the company with the song to the 
air of " Gramachree," written for the occasion, which 
appears in his published works, and in which 

*' Dewy blossoms wave 

Alike o'er Juliet's storied tomb 
And Nelly's nameless grave." 

Mr. Washington Allston was the next gentleman up, 
but spoke in so low a tone, having been recently ill, 
that the rejDorters could not catch a sentence except 
the concluding toast : " Tlie Prophetic Raven, who 
spoke to posterity when he said ' Never say die ' to 
Barnaby Rudge." 



THE DICKENS DINNER OF 1842. 59 

The merchants of Boston were honored in the next 
sentiment ; and Mr. J. Thomas Stevenson responded 
in their behalf, in a speech bristling with puns, and 
closing with a punning toast concerning the " right 
hand of the law raised for no sinister purpose," which 
of course brought up Mr. Franklin Dexter. He, de- 
claring himself " more punned against than punning," 
spoke only soberly and briefly. 

A letter was then read from Mr. William H. Pres- 
cott, bearing date at his house in Bedford Street, and 
excusinoj his absence on account of the irritable state 
of his eyes, which would be sure to suffer fi'om the ex- 
citement and heat of such an occasion. Mr. George 
Bancroft was present, however, to respond for both to 
" The Historians of America," in a speech in which he 
took occasion to express his great admiration for the 
works of Lord B}Ton, and closed with a toast to the 
memory of the poet. 

In introducing the next speaker, the Hon. Jonathan 
Chapman, the president ingeniously quoted a passage 
from " Pickwick " concerning a certain calamitous ride 
of the members of the club, and gave, " The horse 
that Mr. Pickwick could not get rid of, and the mayor 
that nobody ever wants to get rid of." Mayor Chap- 
man followed up the vein, so popular with many of 
the speakers of the evening, by infomdng the com- 
pany that he had been called upon that day by the 
veritable Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller, who came to 
express a fear lest the editor of their doings should be 
utterly extinguished by the attentions showered upon 
him, and killed with kindness. The fancy was quaintly 
managed in a narrative of some length, perhaps the 
best thing in which was an observation of Mr. Pick- 
wick : " I stand in a peculiar relation to the young 
man, one never known before ; indeed, in a truly Pick- 



60 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

wickian relation, namely, that he first created me and 

then I made him." Mr. Stevenson then remarked 

that, whether Mr. Dickens was to be extinguished by 

attentions or not, it was hoped he would not be put 

out by anything taking place on the present occasion. 

The next incident of the evening was a song by Mr. 

J. M. Field, then well known as " Straws," and whose 

daughter has become known to the readers of this 

generation over the signature of " Straws, Junior." 

This song purported to be " The wery last Obser- 

wations of Weller, Senior," was set to a popular air, and 

made a great hit, being at once placed on sale at the 

music-stores. We make room for two of the most 

telling stanzas : — 

" They '11 eat you, Boz, in Boston ! and 
They '11 eat you in New York ! 

Wherever caught, they '11 play a bles- 
sed game of knife and fork ! 

There's prayers in Boston now, that Ca- 
nard's biler may not burst; 

Because their savage hope it is, 
Dear Boz, to eat you first! 

" I '11 tell you vot you does, Boz, 

Since go, it seems, you vill : 
If you vould not expose, Boz, 

Yourself their maws to fill. 
Just ' Marryatt' or ' TroUope,' Boz, 

Within your pocket hem ; 
For blow me if I ever thinks 

They 'II ever swallow them ! " 

This must have brought the evening on to a late 
hour, for the subsequent proceedings were rapid. Mr. 
Richard H. Dana, Sr., spoke briefly, the point of 
his remarks being a direct application to Mr. Dickens 
of a question quoted from Mr. Bob Sawyer, but we 
hardly think original Avith that gentleman, " If he 
would take something to drink." Rev. Dr. Palfrey 
reiterated the arguments in favor of an international 



THE DICKENS DINNER OF 1842. 61 

copyright; and Judge Warren spoke on the same point 
and in favor of the same end. Dr. Jacob Bigelow had 
something witty to say, as a medical man, about the 
newly imported medicine coming among us in Pick- 
wick i^apers, which need not be shaken before taken, 
because those who took it were sure to shake 
themselves ; and which sent people into convulsions, 
happily without serious consequences. The Rev. Caleb 
Stetson told how a child had once assured him of his 
personal resemblance to Mr. Pickwick. Other brief 
speeches were made, which are not fully reported, by 
Mr. William H. Gardiner, Mr. Clifford of New Bedford, 
Mr. J. C. Park, and Mr. George F. Minns. Letters of 
apology were read from Washington Irving at Sunny- 
side ; fi'om Judge Story at Washington ; from Rev. Dr. 
William Ellery Channing ; from Rev. Dr. Moses Stuart 
at Andover ; from Mr. John Neal at Portland, ex- 
pressing his esteem for "Dickens the reformer"; from 
Mr. Charles Sprague ; from IST. P. Willis at Glenmary, 
with a toast in honor of " Master Humphrey's Clock, 
— wound up to run with the stars " ; and from 
Louis Gaylord Clark, with a sentiment to " the health 
of Charles Sprague, our poet of the heart, who, amid 
the cares and turmoils of active life, keeps his holier 
affections and better thoughts unspotted from the 
world." It Avas near one o'clock when the president 
and the guest of the evening withdrew ; but the faith- 
fril reporter informs us that Mr. J. T. Stevenson took the 
chair, and that a few more songs and volunteer senti- 
ments intervened to make a night of it before the 
jolly company broke up. 



62 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 

Meist die every day, in all grades of life, and com- 
paratively small circles are stirred by their departm-e. 
Their places may seem great ; yet the world gets along 
without them very easily, and presently they are 
hardly missed. But to-day the world is not as it was 
yesterday ; every heart feels a blow, every eye recog- 
nizes a gap ; the people of two great nations have 
suffered a bereavement which none of this generation 
will ever cease to feel keenly as a personal loss. 
Charles Dickens is dead. Suddenly as the news came 
to us in America, even more abruptly than the shock 
itself fell upon the stricken family, the first instinct 
was to disbelieve the terrible news. But confirmation 
and details soon left no room for doubt ; and men and 
w^omen throughout all the English-speaking countries 
felt such a pang of regret as will follow the loss of no 
monarch, no statesman, no warrior, no author, whom 
he has left behind him. 

Dickens was not an old man ; but as we look back 
over his life, it seems as if it had been a long one. 
In fact, he began his work very young, and worked 
very busily and very hard. He was born in 1812, at 
Portsmouth, the son of a naval clerk. Of his child- 
hood and boyhood there is very little printed record. 
He had no liberal education, though from the mention 
which may be gathered here and there of " certain 
tragedies achieved at the mature age of eight or ten, 
and represented with great applause to overflowing 
nurseries," and of the " not very robust child with his 
head full of Partridge, Strap, Tom Pipes, and Sancho 
Panzn," we may guess that the tastes of his life were 
of early development. They were not sufficiently 



CHARLES DICKEXS. 63 

marked, however, to prevent an attempt of his father 
to article the kid to an attorney, — an episode to which 
we are asked to attribute the familiarity with some 
phases of the legal profession to be seen in nearly all 
his novels. But it may be remarked that an almost 
equal familiarity is displayed with other branches of 
life ; and, were the records to be swept away, as in the 
case of Shakespeare, the analyzing critics of the future 
would have no difficulty in proving Mr. Dickens's ap- 
prenticeship to a score or two of avocations. He had 
not long passed the gates of manhood when he began 
to tend toward the ways in which his feet were born 
to walk. He entered literature through the stubbly 
path of short-hand writing in the semce of a morning 
newspaper ; but soon he gave such signs of a strong 
hand in his sketches of London life, contributed to a 
daily journal and a monthly magazine, that the happy 
prescience of a publisher selected him for the job-work 
of writing a serial story to fit some comic pictures. 
" The Pickwick Papers " was the result ; and no sud- 
den fame of Byron or the author of " TVaverley " can 
parallel the blaze of popularity which shone upon the 
book and its author before the rambling work was 
completed. Its characters were the talk of all Eng- 
land as the numbers appeared ; and though the criti- 
cism was not all friendly, and there were many weak 
spots in the fabric, when the last number was issued 
the world was ready to bow down and acknowledge a 
new humorist in this yomig man of six-and-twenty. 
The book showed only one side of his genius ; but 
already " Oliver Twist " was coming out in the same 
fi*agmentary way to which the author ever afterwards 
adhered, exhibiting a veiy diflerent phase of the same 
matchless power. We need not rehearse the biogi-a- 
phy, the principal incidents of which mark new experi- 



64 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

ences of delight on the part of all our readers ; the mar- 
vellously swift succession of novels, which left hardly a 
month for many years without its instalment of pleas- 
ure ; the inestimable service to many great reforms ; 
the brief deviation into another sphere of service in 
the establishment of the " Daily News " ; the brilliant 
episode of the Christmas stories ; the sad disclosure 
of domestic unhappiness in a life which seemed to de- 
serve so much of the richest joys of home and love ; 
the splendidly successful experiment of the readings ; 
the two visits to this country ; the ready aid given to 
a host of enterprises of charity and education ; the 
wealth gradually amassed and liberally used ; the last 
unfinished novel. All is too familiar to need minute 
rehearsal ; and now the day has come to which he 
looked forward as he closed his last completed story 
five years ago : he has " joarted company with his read- 
ers forever;" and there " is written agaiust his life the 
two words," wdiich he that day penned thoughtfully, — 
" the end." It is something to be thankful for on his 
behalf, that the end came painlessly, bearing him away 
without the interval of suffering, the anguish of part- 
ing, which is the lot of the mass of humanity, but Avith 
the unconscious departure vouchsafed also to Thack- 
eray, to Hawthorne, to Irving, to Macaulay, and to 
many of the brightest minds of our day. 

This is not the time to estimate calmly the rank 
which the verdict of the future will give to Charles 
Dickens as an artist. He Avill undoubtedly be valued 
chiefly for his humor, which, in its richness, its origi- 
nality, its breadth of range, is worthy to be compared 
with that of Shakespeare. If in the other walks of his 
art there were limitations, if his rhetoric was somewhat 
florid, if his prose was apt to become blank verse, if his 
drama was inclined to melodrama, if his pathos showed 



CHARLES DICKENS. 65 

a tendency to sentimentalism, if the great depths of 
passion were very rarely reached, there were at least no 
bounds to the infinite variety or the abundant felicity 
of his jDowers as a humorist. There was as delicate a 
touch in Goldsmith, as graphic a pencil in Fielding ; 
but we cannot speak of either of them in comparison, 
when we remember but a tithe of the great multitude 
of personages who have leaped from the pen of Dickens 
into the memories, the affections, the familiar language 
of the world, each one stamped with an individuality 
I^erfect and unmistakable. And it is especially to be 
set down to the lionor of the man and the praise of 
the artist, that, writing in a language in which almost 
every humorist has been gross, living in an age Avhen 
even the poets have dabbled in impurity, and emulated 
each other by j^lunging more deej^ly into foulness, his 
books are as clean as new-fallen snow. 

As a literary artist, Mr. Dickens's j^ower of throwing 
his whole energy into his characterization, his prodi- 
gious observation, and his care in detail w^ere his most 
remarkable traits. He lived his books. When he 
Avrote the stormy " Tale of Two Cities," he " so far 
verified what is said and done in its pages, that he cer- 
tainly did and suffered it all himself." As he completed 
a book, he seemed to himself to be " dismissing some 
portion of himself into the shadowy world when the 
crowd of the creatures of his brain w^ere going from 
him forever." When he had written the chapter de- 
scribing the death of little Paul Dombej', he wandered 
for a whole winter night, restlessly and with a heavy 
heart, about the streets of Paris. To the acuteness of 
his observation every page of his novels bears witness. 
His eyes seemed to photograph the scenes of cities, 
the traits of people casually met, the ways of animals, 
and his memory held and reproduced them all. There 



66 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

is not a character in all his books that is not drawn 
from life ; and if the color is filled in so warmly that 
Mrs. Nickleby does not know herself, and the brothers 
Cheeryble have no suspicion of their identity, the 
skill of the artist is no less great. To the care of his 
workmanshi]3 his biographer must testify. From the 
time when he went down into Yorkshire in a bleak 
winter to look for a school for an imaginary orphan, 
and was warned away by a real John Browdie to the 
night last October when he explored the opium dens 
of London to obtain material for the opening of " Ed- 
win Drood," reproducing in the first number word for 
word the very dialogue to which he listened, he al- 
ways studied from the life. And though the his- 
torical novel was not his forte, his tales of the French 
Revolution and the Gordon Riots were based ui:>on as 
careful study, and were as faithful in detail, as any- 
thing done by Scott or Thackeray. 

Of tlie private character of Mr. Dickens as a man, 
his own friends will speak in the proper time and 
way. He was never the hon vivant of the pojDular 
notion, but prudent, abstemious, temperate ; an in- 
domitable worker, a systematic man of afiairs, keen 
and ready in business, generous and oi^en-handed, 
brilliant in conversation, incomparably happy in the 
oratory of festival occasions, the warmest and most 
sympathetic friend, faithful to every duty of life, 
with a rounded character which drew to him such a 
multitude of i^ersonal friends as have gathered about 
very few men in any age. 

The crudest reference to Charles Dickens would be 
incomplete without a reference to that genius as an 
actor which was only less than his genius as a creator 
because it appealed to a smaller public in his own day, 
and leaves nothing behind for future generations to 



OUR PORTRAIT STATUES. 67 

enjoy. To those who never saw the reader at his 
desk, no words can convey a conception of his power ; 
and of the multitude who gained an appreciation of 
it by Mr. Dickens's visit here two years ago, very few 
can need a reminder in words to call up the memory 
of that lithe figure under the '' garish lights," or of 
those quick, jjicturesque gestures, those flitting expres- 
sions of feature, those sympathetic tones, which put a 
character before us as no device of the stage, with all 
the accessories of paint and costume, could do it, and 
painted a personage by a wave of the hand, an into- 
nation, or the curving of an eyebrow. All who have 
read " David Coj^perfield " can mourn sincerely for 
the death of the great author ; but only those have 
tested the full measure of the genius now snatched 
fi'om the earth who have sat in tears and laughter 
under the spell of the author's impersonation of the 
" Christmas Carol." 



OUR PORTRAIT STATUES. 

"The statue is but newly fixed." 

Winte7'''s Tale. 

" Beauty will not come at the call of a legislature, nor will it repeat 
in England or America its history in Greece." — Emerson. 

If material encouragement could insure the devel- 
opment of a branch of art, we should surely rise to a 
pre-eminence among the nations of the earth and of 
history in portrait sculpture. It may well be doubted 
if the artists of Greece or Rome were ever so busy in 
this class of tasks for any equal period as American 
artists have been within the last five-and-twenty years. 



68. SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

The patronage is ample, the stimulant of that fervent 
approval which may pass for fame is not wanting, and 
the prices paid are enormous, compared with any 
standard which may be chosen. We pay, for exam- 
ple, treble or quadruple the rates which European 
governments offer for original statues ; and our sculp- 
tors work in the same marble, hire the same assistants, 
have every facility open to the artists of Italy and 
France. As to the patronage, there seems no limit 
to it. If a great man dies, there is an immediate crop 
of orders for statues of him. If a man rises to fame 
or wealth, his friends or his wife serve as a convenient 
stalking-horse for his vanity by insisting upon at least 
a bust. If a man seems in a fair way to earn an in- 
famous name by corrupt conduct in public station, 
the first step he takes in self-defence is to procure a 
statue in the suggestive purity of marble. If a young 
girl shows a taste for modelling and a tact for lobby- 
ing, a complacent Congress votes her a commission 
for a full-length statue of one of the most difficult 
subjects, and sends her to Europe to execute the 
work. Even architecture, in its earliest infancy with 
us, is beginning to call in the service of sculpture for 
decoration ; and still the portrait statue is preferred 
to the ideal. 

In glancing at the results of all this lavishness, we 
are not called upon to notice the new figure of Abra- 
ham Lincoln by Miss Vinnie Ream, Avhicli we have 
not seen, or the statue of Mr. Tweed of New York, 
which we believe is not yet in actual existence. We 
speak only of works of art worthy of the name. 
And in a general survey of results we r.re inclined to 
think that unbiassed criticism would admit that our 
art has accomplished more of real value in this line 
of i^ortrait statues than in any other. There may be 



OUR rORTRAIT STATUES. 69 

a doubt, or something stronger than a doubt, whether 
The Greek Slave, or Zenobia, or Bierstadt's enormous 
and showy canvases will very deeply imjn-ess the next 
generation ; but there does not seem room for ques- 
tion that the Beethoven of Crawford in the Boston 
Music Hall will be treasured more and more dearly as 
the years pass, and will have an incalculable educat- 
ing and refining influence on the Bostonians of ages 
to come. It is so admirable as a statue, it so triumphs 
over the stumbling-blocks of costume, and it so thor- 
oughly embodies the traits of the great composer, — 
the mental and spiritual characteristics of the man as 
well as his external aspect, — that we cannot but think 
well of the possibilities of art in the country which has 
produced such a work, though the hand which fash- 
ioned it is cold in the grave. And the same lamented 
artist has left in Richmond a still more admirable and 
thoroughly American memorial in the monument to 
Washington, and other worthies of Virginia. The 
equestrian statue of Washington which surmounts the 
structure is a most excellent piece of work, stamped 
with genius in every part, and only marred in effect 
by a slight inadequacy of the base to sustain such a 
figure. It lifts the soul of the spectator, and brings 
back, not only the Father of his Country, but the time 
in which he lived, and the grandeur of the cause for 
which he fought. Such of the surrounding figures as 
are from Crawford's models are in good harmony 
with the main work. The statue of Patrick Henry 
in the very act of passionate oratory is a brilliant 
victory of audacity, Avhich should teach the sculptor 
that there is nothing which may not be done in his 
art if it be only done with skill. About the j^oorest 
parts of this noble work of art, added in the recent 
completion of the elaborate design, there is nothing 



70 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

SO absolutely bad as to offend the eye. One would 
imagine that it would have an elevating, refining in- 
fluence on the life, the thought, the moral tone of the 
city in which it stands; and so doubtless it does, 
intangibly and invisibly ; but when Richmond went 
into rebellion, instead of striving to dignify the hour 
by homage to these Virginia rebels here immortalized 
in bronze, she could think of nothing better than to 
seat a grinning slave on the shoulders of Washington ; 
and throughout the war the monument was probably 
never regarded with such genuine respect as when the 
Northern soldiers poured into the city, and gathered 
round it in silent admiration, and when the newly- 
freed negroes chose it as the rallying-point for their 
meetings of jubilee. 

It is unfortunate that the national capital should 
display such sorry specimens of art, since it is there 
that foreign critics look for our best achievements, and 
there only that citizens of different j^arts of our own 
country meet on a common footing, free from any in- 
citement to local jealousies. But it is a consequence 
of our way of doing things, which gives to men like 
Mr. Clark Mills a vantage simj)ly from being on the 
ground, and thrusting their rearing horses upon the 
sight of every passenger who approaches the Capitol. 
It follows, therefore, that, in any survey of American 
portrait sculpture intended to be comforting to our 
self-esteem, we must not pause for an instant to look 
at the careering steeds and fantastic statesmen who 
constantly pop out upon the vision from amid the 
shrubbery of the squares, and in the corridors of the 
public buildings. The half-naked Washington with 
the sword is the most offensive of all, and fully meets 
the assaults of artists and critics upon the costume of 
our age, calling up Hawthorne's remark on modern 



OUR PORTRAIT STATUES. 71 

nude statuary in " The Marble Faun " : "I am weary, 
even more than I am ashamed, of seemg such things. 
Nowadays people are as good as born in their clothes, 
and there is practically not a nude human being in 
existence." 

The arrangement of the costume of Launt Thomp- 
son's bronze statue of General Sedgvv'ick, at West 
Point, would have pleased Ilavvthorne. The loose 
blouse of the Sixth Army Corps and the high cavalry- 
boots are a thousand-fold more effective than the tra- 
ditional toga and sandals which are so absurdly made 
to do duty in many of our statues. This work and 
Quincy Ward's Shakespeare — judging the latter by 
the small plaster model, for the statue itself is not fin- 
ished — deserve a high rank for their artistic concep- 
tion and execution. We are warranted in looking to 
both these sculptors for many more works of enduring 
merit. 

The newest addition to our stock of portrait sculp- 
ture, and that which makes the general subject an ap- 
propriate theme for the comments of town-talk at this 
time, is the marble statue of John A. Andrew, by 
Thomas Ball, which has been placed in the State 
House in Boston. ISTow, Boston has not been uniform- 
ly lucky in her ventures in this direction. With the 
best intentions, there have come, in several instances, 
the worst results ; and ready as the residents of the 
city usually are to stand stoutly by their local institu- 
tions, and to proclaim their geese the most swanlike 
of swans, there are no Bostonians who will confess to 
being proud of the clumsy Webster with his cruelly 
inappropriate fasces^ — signifying that magisterial 
authority and honor which Webster craved, but never 
gained ; the crude and ungainly Horace Mann ; the 
granite Hamilton, swathed like an infant or a mum- 



72 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

my; or the ungraceful image of the ever-graceful 
Everett, who might be holding uji his hand to catch 
the jokes and sneers, so many have been hurled at the 
statue by the public which respected and loved the 
man. In the other scale of the balance are the grand 
Beethoven w^hich we have mentioned ; the somewhat 
realistic but still powerful equestrian Washington of 
Ball, in the Public Garden, the prosaic and yet some- 
how agreeable and deservedly popular Franklin ; the 
worthier work of Story in the portrayal of his father ; 
and the other statues which, like that, deserved to be 
transferred to a place more familiar to the public eye 
than the " dim, religious light" of the chapel at Mount 
Auburn. We may not pause to mention the beauti- 
ful memorial statue by Richard S. Greenough, lately 
placed in the hall of the Latin School, or the group 
which commemorates the discovery of etherization, 
since we have restricted ourselves to portrait, as dis- 
tinguished from ideal, sculpture. 

It seems to us that the statue of the War Governor, 
though not above criticism, is to be added to the list 
of successful work. The artist has had a difficulty to 
contend with in the figure of the subject hardly less 
serious than confronts those who have to deal with 
the gaunt angularity of Lincoln ; and he has had also 
the ever-vexatious problem of clothes. He has very 
happily conquered the first, idealizing slightly the 
rotund outlines of the well-known form so that grace 
is attained, and yet preserving its essential character- 
istics sufficiently for all purposes of likeness. In 
meeting the latter, he has been aided by the habit of 
Governor Andrew — who had ever a taste for the 
imposing and picturesque — of wearing a graceful 
military cloak ; so that there was no need to borrow a 
garment for the sake of getting the necessary ampli- 



OUK PORTRAIT STATUES. 73 

tilde of drapery. So far all is well ; but in the greater 
task of the trousers the sculptor has not vanquished 
the tailor. The apparel thrusts itself upon the eye ; 
it is not subordinate to the man within. But partial 
failure here is only ftiilure where few indeed have won 
success and we cannot but think it is better than the 
subterfuge of wrapping the legs in impossible swad- 
dling-clothes, which has been adopted in some of the 
statues we have mentioned. It is when we come to 
the head; that we appreciate the full merit of the 
work. It is not only faithful portraiture, — always 
Mr. Ball's strong point, — but there is something bet- 
ter than literal likeness about it — an incorporation 
into the marble of the noble nature of the man — which 
is the highest achievement of art. John A. Andrew's 
was not a coldly immaculate character. He had a fiery 
temper, he made mistakes, he erred sometimes in judg- 
ment of measures and of men. But there was nothing 
ignoble about him, nothing mean. He never thought 
of himself first and the State second. His heart was 
always hot with patriotism, and tender with charity 
to all men. He never bated a jot from principle for 
the sake of joopularity, and more than once breasted 
the current of public opinion. All these traits we see, 
or think we see, suggested in the fine, clear-cut face, 
the firm lips and delicate nostril and grand forehead, 
the symmetrical shape and dignified pose of the head, 
especially when it is seen in profile. There is, too, a 
glimpse of the personality of the subject, as well as the 
skill of the sculptor, in the hands, — so admirably 
combining beauty and strength and delicacy of tex- 
ture that one feels that the grasp of such a hand was 
warm and earnest, its blow direct and irresistible. 
Altogether the statue moves the spectator to hearty 
liking; and we feel sure that it will grow into the 

4 



74 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

popular heart, as it stands close by where the govern- 
or toiled and thought through five exhausting years, 
surrounded by the tattered flags of the thousands of 
Massachusetts boys who, like him, gave their utroost 
effort for nationality and liberty, and many of whom, 
like him, sealed the sacrifice with death. 



ROBERT COLLYER. 

** A man he was to all the country dear.'* 

Goldsmith. 
"And the hearts of the people where he passed 
Swayed as the reeds sway in the blast, 
Under the spell of a voice which took 
In its compass the flow of Siloa's brook, 
And the mystical chime of the bells of gold 
On the ephod's hem of the priest of old." 

Whittier. 

The time has gone by when the reputation of the 
preacher was merely local, like that of the doctor and 
the schoolmaster. A generation or two ago the most 
eminent pulpit orator was known only in his own 
county. He made the exchanges which his people 
grudgingly permitted in the towns clustering about 
his own parish ; and beyond the radius which his stout 
but not showy horse could travel in a day his name 
was an empty sound. Such pilgrimages as that of 
Whitefield, who traversed the nation from Georgia to 
Massachusetts, and in whose route 

•'The flood of emotion, deep and strong, 
Troubled the land as it swept along, 
But left a result of holier lives," 

were rare and memorable exceptions. But now we 



ROBERT COLLYER. 75 

have not a few preachers of national renown, whose 
characteristics are commented upon from the Missis- 
sippi to the Athmtic, if not from one ocean to the 
other. Mr. Beecher has built up in Brooklyn a fame 
so broad and strong that whoever visits the metropo- 
lis, let his creed be what it may, come he from Kansas 
or Constantinople, is very sure to give his first Sun- 
day to Plymouth Church, where a perfume of geni- 
ality, almost of hilarity, pervades the atmosphere, 
where children play fearlessly on the pulpit stairs, 
Vv'Iiere the preacher makes gentle jokes now and then, 
yet where the listener's heart is sure to be moved by 
evidences which lie cannot question of earnest devo- 
tion, of sincere faitli, and of a big heart full of love 
for man and for his Maker, beuting responsive in 
preacher and congregation. Other clergymen do not 
exert such a powerful magnetic influence, drawing 
their hearers from all over the land ; nor is it needed. 
Exchanges are made over distances limited only by 
the breadth of the continent. Last year a Boston 
clergyman and the most popular preacher of San 
Francisco filled each other's pulpits for the Sundays 
of a month, meeting and passing in the gorges of the 
Rocky Mountains far too swiftly for the dignified 
greeting, the comparison of texts, and the friendly 
mug of flip Avhicli the New England pastor of the 
olden time, in similar circumstances, used to enjoy at 
the half-way tavern. So the author of " A Man with- 
out a Country" and the author of " Nature and Life" 
more recently made a like barter, to the great satis- 
fiiction of themselves and their congregations. As 
for the leading preachers of New York, they make 
nothing of a flitting every few wrecks to Boston or to 
Philadelj^hia for a Sunday. Then, almost all ministers 
at some time in their lives enter the lyccum circuit, 



76 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

in order to obey the Divine injunction, and make to 
themselves friends of the mammon of unrigliteous- 
ness in the readiest way open to men of brains in 
America. But even those who do not venture out- 
side tlie pulpit at all, by the system of exchanges Ave 
have mentioned gradually extend their fame and in- 
fluence to the people of all the great cities, at least 
to those inside their own denominations; and thus it 
is that the name of Robert Collyer, whose noble elo- 
quence is the dearest jewel in the crown of Cliicago, 
will kindle a flush of enthusiasm on the faces of 
thousands of men and women who never saw the 
busy, precocious, egotistical, thriving city by the 
Western lake. 

It is to be said, in the first j^lace, of Robert Collyer, 
as of Henry Ward Beecher, that he belongs in the 
pulpit. An active mind does many things outside 
its vocation. Mr. Beecher has lectured hundreds of 
times, has edited various newspapers, has dabbled in 
politics, has written delightful little essays by the 
bushel, has written, or tried to write, a serial novel. 
Mr. Collyer has done some of these things, and be- 
sides has made, we believe, many excellent horse-shoes. 
But it was the true gravitation that drew both these 
men to the real work of their lives ; and no one can 
claim any thorough knowledge or appreciation of 
their traits who has not sat under the shadow of their 
pulpits. Mr. Beecher, especially, addresses every week 
an immense audience who never saw his face ; but 
not one of them knows the best half of the man. So 
with Mr. Collyer : we dare say many who read these 
lines may turn to the next published words from his 
pen, and find there little depth of thought or elegance 
of expression, who yet, if they could once experience 
the magnetism of his presence, Avould find those same 



ROBERT COLLYER. 77 

words to sing with the music of a j^oem of that other 
northern-born Robert, whose character the Chicasfo 
preacher has so fondly and beautifully pictured in one 
of his lectures. 

A hearty, bluflP, white-haired man,- of burly frame and 
large, kindly features, who looks as if he never knew 
the meaning of sickness or of languor, rises in the 
pulpit. His prayers are short and simple; there is 
nothing in his reading of Scripture or hymn to attract 
attention as out of the common, except that he looks 
always " up and not down," as a colaborer of his in 
the same field advises, aiming his words at the chan- 
delier or the organ-loft instead of at the pews below 
him, and that now and then a word has a curious broad- 
ness and bluntness of pronunciation, such as belongs to 
not one of the several American dialects. But there 
is nothing marked enough to excite the special atten- 
tion of the tired church-goer, wearied with the cares 
of the week and familiar with the ways of many admi- 
rable preachers, until the sermon begins. 

The speaker sets out as if he were in a prodi- 
gious hurry, and, from text to conclusion, goes on 
with a rush, pausing nowhere, dwelling upon noth- 
ing, never hesitating for a word or to find a lost 
place in his manuscript, never stop2oing to beat out 
the text while his thoughts and energies rally for 
a new start. His only difficulty seems to be that 
too many things crowd upon him to be said in 
the little time at his command. But before he has 
gone fir on his swift journey, the dullest listener is 
aroused, and " cannot choose but hear." How earnest 
he is ! How far from shouting, how gentle and con- 
ciliatory in manner, yet how he moves his hearer to 
catch every word as if it were a pearl ! How sunny 
is his face, how tender his voice, as he speaks of some 



78 SOCIAL AND LITEKARY TOPICS. 

natural beauty, — the daisy or the, heather or the 
ocean! And here we hit upon one of the most salient 
traits of the man, in his affection for the little beauties 
of this beautiful world, — never forced, never over-de- 
monstrative, never dwelling in detailed and minute 
description, but breathing through his every utterance 
and lurking in his every thought. It is there, bounding 
through his pulses, just as it leaps along in the lines 
of Jean Ingelow more than in those of any other 
poet of this generation, so that you know she is think- 
ing of daisies and buttercups, linnets and hedge-spar- 
rows, though she may not once mention them from 
the beginning to the end of the ballad. Robert Coll- 
yer cannot speak of the blue sky without your seeing, 
or seeming to see, the grand dome of heaven, warm, 
lovely, and illimitable, above ; and, what is more, when 
you think of the man afterward, you seem to see it 
again in exquisite beauty, like the one i:)erfect day of 
many remembered Junes. 

Closely akin to this is the warm sympathy of the 
preacher with human nature, his love for what is good 
in it under all its flaws and frailties. There is no 
thunder in his voice, nothing terrible in his creed. 
He is pre-eminently the discij^le of a cheerful Chris- 
tianity. Let him discourse upon sin as he may, one 
leaves the church thinking, not of the hideousness of 
sin, but of the beauty of virtue ; not abasing himself in 
the dust, but seeking some poor brother whom he may 
lift up out of it ; with a warmer hand-clasp for every 
friend, a readier forgiveness for every hurt. The ser- 
mon rushes on like a mountain torrent, bearing illus- 
trations snatched from every shore, from literature, 
from travel, from every-day life, from a rich personal 
experience of infinite variety. No one sobs, no one 
laughs ; but every face ripples with a smile, every eye 



ALEXANDRE DUMAS. 79 

glistens with unconscious tears. The Yorkshire bun- 
is forgotten ; nobody has an inclination to criticise 
manner or matter ; the congregation of strangers feels 
like a family party. Then the end is reached ; and the 
preacher stops, not because his theme is exhausted, 
but because his thne is up ; and the auditor feels, and 
may prove by actual test if he pleases, that the orator 
is just as fresh and full of electric force for an after- 
noon or an evening sermon as if he had passed the 
morning on the sofa in his study. 



ALEXANDRE DUMAS. 

"Ah, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, you are a magnificent trio! 
.... I think of the prodigal banquets to which this Luculhis of a man 
has invited me, with thanks and wonder." — Thackeray's Round- 
about PajJers. 

Had it occurred a year ago, the death of Alexan- 
dre Dumas would have been town-talk in Paris for 
nine days, and then for nine days more. The airy, 
gay, luxurious, wicked old fellow had furnished so 
much pleasant entertainment to the wicked, luxurious, 
gay, airy city that everybody would have been moved 
to chat about him; and his life was so full, not of 
heroism, not of instruction, but of the material for gos- 
sip which Paris relished, that the journals would have 
been busy with him for weeks; and the boulevards and 
the cafes would have echoed many stories, true and. 
false, not to be printed even in Parisian journals. But 
now, if perchance the pigeon which bears the news un- 
der its wing loses its way, or flies within range of a 
needle-gun, Paris will not even know that he is dead ; 



80 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

or perhaps the tidings may be carried in on the day 
of the entrance of the German armies, and will hard- 
ly be noticed in the confusion of the hour, and while 
the humiliation of the 23roud capital fills with bitter- 
ness every heart within its gates. 

Only a Frenchman can speak with genuine appreci- 
ation and sym23atliy of Dumas, the most thoroughly 
French of any man of his generation. The mere 
story of his life makes a j^icture at which an American 
looks with amazement and incredulity. There is noth- 
ing in " Monte Cristo " itself more extravagant than 
the realities of this man's career. The mere trivial 
incidents of his life are bizarre to the last degree. 
Imagine him lying silent on his back for two days on 
the deck of a yacht in the Mediterranean, at the end 
of the time rising, and calling for dinner, with a novel 
complete in his head, and all ready to be written off 
at railroad speed, fr.ster than three expert scribes could 
copy. But very few of his works apj^ear to have re- 
quired so much thought in advance as this. Fancy 
him, again, sitting in a little room, big enough only 
" for a table, a j^en, and an inkstand," in a gorgeous 
and fantastic palace built from his own designs out of 
the profits of one or two of his books, surrounded by 
an artificial lake, and approachable only by a clravr- 
bridge, which the writer in his tower raised and low- 
ered by touching a golden knob at his right hand. 
Fancy him entrapped by an ingenious manager, con- 
fined in a gorgeous chamber adjoining the ajDartment 
of a pretty actress, and kept a close prisoner there 
for eight days, until a drama he had bargained to 
Avrite was finished. Think of the man's making an 
elaborate toilet to take part in the barricade-building 
of the revolution of July ; of his having written a 
cookery-book, and an account of his emotions on 



ALEXANDRE DUMAS. 81 

Mount Sinai ; of his campaign vnih Garibaldi ; of his 
fragment of an autobiograjijhy in twenty-seven vol- 
umes. Then try to imagine Thackeray, or Dickens, 
or Charles Reade working under similar conditions, 
doing such things, leaving such a record, and you real- 
ize how much more is the British Channel than forty 
rough miles of salt water. 

Endeavoring in these rambling j^aragraphs, not to 
criticise or to analyze Dumas or his books, but simply 
to crystallize a little of the endless variety of gossip 
which his name suggests, it is worth wdiile to note 
that he was a dramatist before he was a novelist, and 
that it is to the French stage, more than to French 
literature, that he belongs. Perhaps he is not exactly 
a product to be envied ; but we cannot help sighing 
for the day when we, too, shall have an original stage, 
capable of giving birth to a dramatist who shall sat- 
isfy the needs of America and represent America as 
Dumas satisfied and represented France. There is no 
page in the story of his career w^hich more strikingly 
illustrates the enormous gulf that separates the world 
we live in from the world he lived in than that which 
*tells of his first play. It was about the year 1827. 
Alexandre Dumas, a quadroon youth of four-and-twen- 
ty, was a clerk in the office of the Secretary of the Duke 
of Orleans, — a clerk appointed only on the strength of 
his neat handwriting, and because his father had been 
a gallant officer. He had already been reduced in rank 
once for indolence and inattention to duty. His salary 
was twenty dollars a month. He had written a his- 
torical play, and a manager had accepted it. He 
called on the Duke of Orleans, and requested that 
royal personage — afterwards King of France — to 
attend his first night. The invitation was courteously 
decUned, because the Duke had engaged to entertain 

4* Ij 



82 SOCIAL AND LITEEARY TOPICS. 

a score of princes and princesses at dinner at almost 
the very hour the play was to begin. But Dumas 
was not abashed. He suo-o-ested that if the dinner 
could be set an hour earlier, he would make the per- 
formance begin an hour later, and would find seats for 
all the noble company. The Duke, amused at his 
audacity, consented. The piece was played before a 
brilliant audience and a balcony glittering with royal 
spectators. The prestige thus given was matched by 
the originality, imagination, and wit disj^layed in the 
drama ; and next morning Dumas was the most 
famous man in Paris. Managers and publishers were 
running after him; not long after he had eighty 
works under contract, and engaged with a newspaper 
to write in addition eleven novels a year for five years, 
for a splendid salary ; and for forty years he made 
fortune after fortune with a swift pen, and spent his 
wealth as rapidly with a lavish hand. 

"We have no princes in America ; but we have 
colored boys, whose fathers fought in the army, in 
petty clerkships in the government service. We make 
more boast of the equality of men than France ever 
made. But we will not tax the imagination of our 
readers by asking them to conceive a smart quadroon 
youngster in the Treasury Department inviting Secre- 
tary Boutwell to see his new play, and to suppose that 
officer and a bright bevy of generals and admirals, 
judges and senators, lending eclat to the initial per- 
formance. The parallel is quite too extravagant to be 
carried out, even in the imagination. 

In the words we have placed at the head of this 
paper, Thackeray testified his warm admiration for 
the teller of twelve hundred stories ; and he has ex- 
pressed the same feeling many times in his books. 
The great English humorist had the true novel-read- 



ALEXANDRE DUMAS. 83 

er's instinct. He enjoyed a story for n story's sake, 
and relished Walter Scott and Wilkie Collins, " Don 
Quixote " and " Tom Jones," Gil Bias and Leather- 
stocking, with a true catholicity of taste. It were 
curious to know what Dumas thought of Thackeray. 
It is doubtful whether he would find anything in 
"Esmond " to please him. He professed, it is true, to 
adore Shakespeare ; but he professed also to make 
the great dramatist his model, and it is prol)able that 
he understood no better than he imitated him. Wo 
are told that Dumas could not read "The Scarlet 
Letter," finding it so dull ; and his knowledge of 
American literature covered little besides Cooper, 
whose books, he said in his French way, " were grand 
enough to make one believe in the immortality of the 
soul." In fine, his taste in sauces was better than 
his taste in books ; but for his own books, they display 
the same matchless fertility of invention v\-hich he 
showed in devising sauces. No one who can enjoy the 
exercise of the imagination pure and simple — without 
humor, without thought, without conscience, but 
imagination of the same rich quality which may be 
tasted in " The Arabian Nights," saturated with the 
spirit of the France of the nineteenth century — need 
fear to confess an honest liking for the books which 
Thackeray owned he had "read from sunrise to sun- 
set with the utmost contentment of mind." 



84 SOCIAL AND LITERAEY TOriGS. 

MR. TENNIEL'S CARTOONS. 

"Look here, upon this picture, and on this." 

Hamlet. 

" Punch is the comic version of Enghsh good sense. Many of 
its caricatures are equal to the best pamphlets, and will convey to 
the eye in an instant the popular view which was taken of each turn 
of public affairs. Its sketches are usually made by masterly hands, 
and sometimes with genius." — Emerson, English Traits. 

It has for several years been fashionable and proper 
to sneer at Pnnch. Long before its editor, Mark 
Lemon, died, it had ceased to command any such 
circle of wits as gathered around its cradle, — when a 
Cln-istmas number might chance to contain " The Song 
of the Shirt," when Thackeray in his obscure, vigorous 
prime poured in ballads and dissected snobs from 
week to week, and Douglas Jerrold told " The Story 
of a Feather" and rehearsed "The Caudle Lec- 
tures." One by one they have passed away ; and the 
greatest loss of all, from the Punch public's point of 
view, must have been when John Leech died, and 
those matchless sketches of English life and character, 
those hunting-parties and children's balls and ser- 
vants' colloquies, ceased to be a feature of every num- 
ber of the little paper. But Punch still lives and 
thrives in spite of the sneerers who announce the ap- 
pearance of a real joke in its columns as almost as rare 
a phenomenon as an earthquake. Still the opened 
numbers attract the gaze of the public to the shop- 
windows where they are suspended ; and still he who 
would understand England, who would know the tone 
of British sentiment at any crisis, must examine Punch 
as surely as he must consult the Times. 

When we come to analyze this jDersistent power 
and popularity, we speedily discover that Punch as it 



MR. TENNIEL'S CARTOONS. 85 

exists to-day rests mainly upon the shoulders of one 
man, and that man Mr. John Tenniel. Its reading 
columns must be acknowledged to be dull. There is 
commonly food for smiles in the gentle humor of Mr. 
Buruand's contributions ; but Mr. Barnand seems to 
have but one vein, and after a series of years even that 
becomes tiresome to the constant reader ; while as for 
the rest of the letter-press, one is more apt to check 
himself sighing over it than to be forced to laugh. 
But the j^ictures are always worth looking at; and 
the leading cartoon, which is almost always from the 
same pencil, is worth study and preservation. For 
many years Mr. John Tenniel has stood at the head 
of this department of art, — a department requiring 
peculiar powers, not only of artistic execution, but of 
judgment, of wit, of command of classical allusion, 
and of a certain nameless facility in catching the spirit 
of an event and presenting it in a new form which is 
worth all the other qualities together. Mr. Leech 
used now and then to undertake political cartoons; 
but his success Avas nothing like that he attained in 
the more congenial work of social sketches. Mr. 
Tenniel stands without a rival in our time ; and when 
we compare his delicacy and strength with the coarse 
brutality of Gillray and the inferiority of many others 
who have gone before, we feel confident that in him 
England possesses one of the greatest caricaturists 
that ever lived, and that the judgment of the future 
will assign him a unique place and an enduring fame, 
like that attained by that great humorist of another 
school, William Hogarth. 

Were we to go back in a long survey of Mr. Ten- 
niel's notable work, we should be brought face to face 
with the fact that he, like so many other Englishmen, 
misinterpreted our war, and, in his caricatures of Mr. 



86 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

Lincoln, went beyond the bounds of artistic exaggera- 
tion to which he has generally adhered, — 

" With mocking pencil wont to trace 

Broad for the self-comph^cent British sneer, 
His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face, 

"His gannt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, 
His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, 
His lack of all we prize as debonair, 

Of power or will to shine, of art to please." 

But this would remind us that he bore a part in the 
manly avowal of error which Punch made when the 
assassination of the President opened its eyes, and 
that, with that memorable poem from which we have 
quoted, in which the "sciirril jester " acknowledged 
the greatness of the man he had flouted, was a cartoon 
by Tenniel, showing Britannia placing a wreath upon 
the bier by which Columbia and the negro sobbed in 
sympathy. 

Or, did we design to point out the skill and pun- 
gency with which the wide variety of subjects coming 
within the scope of Punch's comment are treated, we 
should be at a loss which to select from the multitude 
of political cartoons which press upon the memory. It 
would have been impossible to give more accurately 
in a volume of discussion the English view of the Irish 
question, during the heat of the Fenian excitements, 
than did Mr. Tenniel when he condensed it into a 
picture of a scene from " The Tempest." Mr. Glad- 
stone, as Prospero, stands calm and dignified, his wand 
the Irish land bill. Gentle Hibernia, as Miranda, 
clings affrighted to the serene magician. Caliban — 
an Irish Caliban, the ugliest creature pencil could de- 
vise — rages before them with frenzied face and furi- 
ous fists ; and the inscription is : — 

" This island 's mine, by S3 corax my mother, 
Which thou tak'st from me." 



MR. TENNIEL'S CARTOONS. 87 

Or, in another vein, what could be better than the 
picture entitled " Critics," — two gentlemen at a book- 
stall, unconscious of each other's presence; Mr. Glad- 
stone sternly turning over the pages of " Lothair," 
with " Hni ! Flippant ! " and Mr. Disraeli airily skim- 
ming through " Juventus Mundi," with " Ha ! Prosy ! " 
As good as either, and illustrating an era which seems 
far back in the past, though really less than a twelve- 
month ago, was the cartoon which followed the 
French plebiscites — Madame La France, as a buxom, 
comfortable hourgeoise landlady, looking over a paper 
she is about to sign, while a peasant in wooden shoes, 
but with the unmistakable aquiline profile and waxed 
mustache, waits in company with his comely, frank- 
faced boy. Says Louis, the tenant, " Madame will not 
object, I hope, to tico lives in the lease?" "Hm," 
says madame, aside, "I suppose I ccmH object." 

It is our purpose, however, in the space which is 
left us, to recall some of the more striking features of 
]Mr. Tenniel's treatment of the war just ended on the 
Continent. We cannot reproduce the skilful, vigor- 
ous drawing of his figures, but Ave can indicate some- 
thing of the happiness with which he catches the pre- 
vailing feeling of his country as to the prominent 
event of the week, and the force with which he em- 
bodies his conception. There is a tradition that the 
cartoon is a matter of debate at the weekly council 
of Punch editors and contributors over the pub- 
lishers' dinner-table ; but we cannot err in ascribing 
the main credit of thiC felicitous invention to the artist 
whose hand does the work, since such a uniformity 
of character marks all his pictures, not only as designs, 
but as embodiments of opinion. 

The first war cartoon ai:>peared in Punch of July 
23. Was it a happy hit only, or a fire sagacity, which 



88 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

called tlie struggle even then "A Duel to the Death"? 
The duelists are stripped to their shirts and trousers, 
rapiers in hand, arms bared, poised for the encounter. 
Matronly Britannia strives to remonstrate. The king 
stands cold and silent. Napoleon says, " Pray stand 
back, madame: you mean well, but this is an old 
family quarrel, and we must Jight it outr How terse, 
how clearly cut, how precisely in the right words, and 
not one wasted, are these inscriptions! quite as good 
in their way as those of Leech to his pictures, in 
which there was often a humor as rich as Dickens's 
own. The very next Aveek's picture seems in the 
light of to-day like a bit of prophecy. The two Louises 
are riding at the head of a numberless army of French- 
men, the Emperor cloaked and seemingly shivering 
as if the night were chilly, the boy prince with a ju- 
venile jauntiness of bearing. The ghost of Napoleon 
I. on horseback and in his fimous military surtout 
confronts them in the path ; and the one word of the 
inscription is " Beware ! " 

A little later the flurry of the secret treaty revela- 
tion engaged England's attention, and gave an oppor- 
tunity for lighter humorous treatment. The whole 
essence of a fortnight's excitement, of scores of de- 
spatches and contradictions, of hundreds of news- 
paper columns, is distilled into one picture. John 
Bull sits at his table, the secret treaty spread before 
him, his frame dilating, and his face radiant, with 
wrath, his eyes upon the tAVO monarchs before him. 
" 'Pon my word," he exclaims, " you 're a nice couple ! " 
France is represented by Napoleon, with the most 
elaborately deprecating, insinuating manner, and the 
words, " Blague ! Mon cher ! It is nothing ! If I 'd 
wanted Belgium, why have I not taken it any time 
these five years ? " Prussia, embodied in King Wil- 



MR. TENi!^IEL'S CARTOONS. 89 

liam, stands erect, with an air of injured dignit}", and 
exclaims, " Mein lieber Johann ! You cannot believe 
that I, — a so respectable, so religious friend, — con- 
nected by marriage, also ? You cannot believe it ! " 
And Mr. Punch expresses his opinion and the opinion 
of England when he gives his bright sketch its title, — 
" Six of One and Half a Dozen of the Other." 

It was after Sedan that the war assumed its saddest, 
its most tragic phase, which the cartoons of Punch 
adequately reflected. After the disappearance of 
Napoleon from the scene, Mr. Tenniel caught the 
conception of the new France as a woman with a 
suggestion of Joan of Arc about her, with features 
bearing in their energy and determination a resem- 
blance to those of the American eulogist of the Maid 
of Orleans when lighted up by the excitement of 
oratory, to which he afterwards adhered to the end. 
We saw her at every stage of the struggle, — in ar- 
mor and hopeful, giving elevation to the heavy artil- 
lery of the Paris ramparts, with the cap and bells and 
other symbols of Parisian folly trodden under her 
feet; shouting the rallying-cry of the "Marseillaise," 
with the banner of the republic held aloft ; solaced 
with lying bulletins by Gambetta, while Truth is re- 
pelled at the door; crouching in agony by her gun, 
while " Germany's Ally," a ghostly, hooded figure of 
Famine, is stretching its hands over her ; hurling a 
last defiance to " the new Caesar " ; driven to her knees, 
but still brandishing her broken and dripping sword 
at the German Emperor, who waits in patience sur- 
rounded by his princes; at length, in her final extrem- 
ity, covering her face, and tearing her hair, the hid- 
eous hounds of Fire, Famine, and Sword showing their 
fimgs about her, William, Bismarck, and Yon Moltke 
still calmly looking on, and the passionate inscription, 



90 SOCIAL AND LITERAEY TOPICS. 

"Call off the Dogs," telling that the story is at an 
end. 

These j^ictures are much more than ephemeral car- 
icatures. They are works of art of a very high order, 
and deserve more minute comment, more worthy 
description, than our mere hints of their general 
character and purpose. They must often have been 
done in haste, and with no opportunity for finishing 
touches; but they show no signs of hurry, are at once 
marvellously graceful and superbly vigorous, and very 
rarely defaced by any defective drawing. May the 
succession long continue, and may it be many years 
before the familiar signature of "J. T." disappears 
from the leading page of Punch ! 



WENDELL PHILLIPS AS AK ORATOR. 

" Thence to the famous orators repair, 
Those ancient, whose resistless eloquence 
Wielded at will that fierce democratic, 
Shook til' arsenal, and fulmined over Greece." 

Milton. 

" His hard head went through, in childhood, the drill of Calvinism, 
with text and mortification, so that he stands in the New England 
assembly a purer bit of New England than they, and flings his sar- 
casms right and left This man scornfully renounces your civil 

organizations, — county, or city, or governor, or army, — is his own 
navy and artillery, judge and jury, legislature and executive. He has 
learned his lessons in a bitter school." — Emekson. 

It is difficult to treat a man like Wendell Phillii^s 
in a single character, even though that j^hase be the 
one in which he stands most prominently before the 
world. Mr. Phillips has made a mark upon his time 
otherwise than as an orator. A leader in one great re- 
form movement for nearly thirty years, he has been 



WENDELL PHILLIPS AS AN ORATOR. 91 

active also in various other reforms ; he has been all 
his life a political critic, not only through his platform 
utterances, but by his pen in different journals ; he has 
been a recognized power in politics, though never 
until last year himself a candidate for office or iden- 
tified with any party ; and if his own desire or opinion 
were to settle the matter, it would hardly be as an 
orator that he would stand in history. But it is his 
oratorical power which makes him a theme for the 
gallery of tovrn-talk ; it is that quality which makes 
cities and towns from one end of the country to the 
other vie in entreaty for a visit from him, and gathers 
great audiences to listen to expressions of oj^inion 
with wdiich, j^erhaps, not one man among them agrees ; 
and it is as an orator that w^e desire to consider him 
here, studying the secret of his skill as we might that of 
a tragedian or a sculptor, and setting completely aside 
what he says, to treat the manner in which he says it. 
And, first of all, we are struck by the difficulty 
of comparing him with anybody. Wendell Phillips 
stands alone. His style is unique. It is impossible 
to apply to him even the universal maxim of Demos- 
thenes. "Action, action, action," is not the first 
requisite with him, for it is by no means an essential 
element of his oratory. We cannot imagine him de- 
claiming the " Give me liberty, or give me death " of 
Patrick Henry, or piling ujd the massive perorations 
of Daniel Webster. His intensity of passion is as un- 
like the exuberant tropical fervor of Rufus Choate as 
his calmness is unlike the elaborate and impressive 
dignity of Edward Everett. It is impossible to con- 
ceive of Wendell Phillips resorting to such tricks as 
the dagger of Chatham or the fainting of Sheridan 
after his plea in the Hastings impeachment ; yet 
Chatham and Sheridan were reckoned the two great- 



92 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

est orators of the eighteenth century. We think we 
have approached a gUmpse of him when we read that 
Warren Hastings said, after Burke's presentation of 
the charges against him, " As I Ustened to the orator, 
I felt for more than half an hour as if I were the most 
culpable being on earth"; but in a moment we re- 
member that Burke, with all the splendor of his intel- 
lect, was never orator enough to bind the multitude, 
and that his stately style is totally unlike that of the 
American speaker. John Bright furnishes no better 
basis for a comparison than does Lamartine. We 
must abandon the search for a comparison, and study 
Mr. Phillips by the light of no genius but his own. 

And the first trait which deserves mention — as in 
the analysis of greatness in so many other spheres of 
effort — is that of simplicity. So simple, pure, and 
direct is the oratory of Mr. Phillips that it evades de- 
scription. We can dwell upon the manifold beauties 
of a picture by a great artist ; but it is difficult to di- 
late upon Giotto's O. There it stands. It is without 
a flaw. It completely answers the purpose for which 
it was intended. There is nothing more to be said 
about it. So it is with the eloquence of Mr. Phillips. 
He stands erect and quiet beside his desk, or without 
any desk, rarely changing his place upon the platform 
more than once in the evening. He begins in a some- 
what low voice, but in a few sentences attains the 
even tone which is kept u]) to the end, every word of 
which can be heard throughout the hall, but not one 
word of which sounds particularly loud to any listen- 
er, though he sit within arm's length of the speaker. 
He appears to think his speech out as he utters it, — 
at least he has no manuscript or memoranda, never 
seems to trouble his memory, and arranges his topics 
according to the warning of the clock. Does he make 



WENDELL PHILLIPS AS AN ORATOR. 93 

any gestures? They are of the very gentlest sort, — a 
clasping and unclaspmg of the hands, a slight waving 
of one hand, — and we doubt if Mr. Phillips ever 
raised his arm in the attitude of the Everett statue, or 
once struck the table with his fist as Sergeant Buzfuz 
does at the close of every resounding 2:)aragra2:)h. 
Raising neither his voice nor his hand, he talks on 
with an utterance which, if pleasant to the ear, has 
none of the silvery cadence of Curtis; and the listen- 
er, never inattentive for an instant, thinks, not of the 
man, nor the tone, nor the manner, but only of what is 
said. The orator culls none of the flowers of rhetoric 
as he ofoes : you may search in vain through his 
yolume of published speeches for one beautiful meta- 
phor, one brilliant antithesis, one elaborately con- 
structed period. He has no perorations. But, on the 
other hand, he never utters a sentence that a child 
might not comprehend ; he uses no illustration the 
force of which would not be apparent to the group 
about the stove in a country store ; he discusses jiolit- 
ical issues in such a way that the young girl who has 
come to the lecture with her lover, who never read a 
debate in Congress in her life, and does not know the 
names of the Senators from her own State, understands 
what he says, and is interested. 

Tliese are very indift'erent virtues, says the reader 
who has never experienced Mr. Phillips's fascinations, 
and is trying to get an idea of them from our feeble 
essay. The man talks in a pleasant voice, uses simple 
and universally intelligible language, addresses the 
common apprehension, is not awkward in bearing, has 
none of the vices of exuberant rhetoric. Of how many 
may all these things be said, who yet are not orators 
in any sense of the word. Yet it is these things, with 
a nameless something else which may not be caught 



94 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

with types and ink, whicli make Wendell Phillips the 
most charming orator in America, perhaps in the 
world. The magnetism of his presence is too subtle 
to be photographed. He is always plainly dressed, 
and has a very rare and enviable faculty of never 
having his garments appear new. He has not those 
flashing, speaking eyes which imagination attributes 
to the orator ; indeed, his eyes are so nearly closed as 
he speaks, especially if the light be strong, that the 
auditor a few seats away could not tell whether the 
lecturer were a blind man or not. His smile is sin- 
gularly pleasant and winning; but his lips seldom 
break into a smile on the platform, cxcej^t Avhen the 
speaker feels that somebody else is wincing under his 
savage words. To say that Mr. Philli23s's bearing 
toward his audience is cold would be to use a wholly 
inadequate term. It is often er hostile, not seldom 
defiant. He delights to assume that his listeners are 
offended by what he says, are admirers of the men at 
whom he points his arroAvs of scorn ; and a chorus of 
hisses, and the retort which springs to his lips at the 
sound of a hiss, seem to be to him the most agreeable 
possible incident of an evening. 

And yet Mr. Phillips has such command over his 
audience as very few men can ever attain. He is 
satisfied to use it to comjjel their attention ; and this 
he always does. But he can use it, wherever he so 
wills, to command their applause. There is a little 
story which he often tells, in which it is necessary, to 
make his point, that the audience should clap their 
hands at a certain point ; and the audience always 
falls into the trap, as the spectators at a legerdemain 
entertainment always draAV the cards the magician 
chooses. It is a story of a luinker college president 
in the old days before the war, who, in a speech to the 



WENDELL PHILLIPS AS AN ORATOR. 95 

students, offered to give tliem a motto for their politi- 
cal action. "No slavery anywhere," — the audience 
applauds. " You applaud," says Mr. Phillips ; " so did 
the students; but the president's hand came up to 
the level, and checked them: 'I am not done yet. 
'No slavery anywhere, — outside the Slave States ! ' " 
Now, there is no reason under the sun why an as- 
semblage in New England, in this decade should be 
moved, to a demonstration of enthusiasm by such a 
cheap sentiment as "No slavery anywhere." Let 
anybody try to raise applause with it in his next 
speech in the lyceura, the town-meeting, or the com- 
mon council, and see for himself But it suits Mr. 
Phillips's special purpose to have a round of applause 
just at this point; and he gets it just as readily as a 
child might pick up an apple. But he uses this ]:)ower 
very seldom. He has tested the value of plaudits 
long ago. When they would have been sweet to him, 
he got little but hisses and abuse : he speaks for some- 
thing else. When he does draw down the house in 
applause, it is commonly by the mention, with two or 
three curt words of eulogy, of the j^ublic man who is 
his favorite at the moment, and not for any eloquently 
uttered sentiment of his own. 

And this brings us to say — wdiat w^e must say in 
conclusion, though the subject is very far from being 
exhausted by our surface treatment — that Mr. Phil- 
lips is most brilliant as an orator when he is most 
bitter. The listener who goes away at the end with- 
out hearing one of his acid sentences about some 
leader whose course has offended him feels that he 
has been cheated of his privilege ; but it is very 
seldom that there is cause for any such disappoint- 
ment. This brilliancy in bitterness is as hard to ana- 
lyze as the other qualities of Mr. Phillips's eloquence. 
It is not invective, as invective is commonly under- 



96 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 

stood, — a torrent of scathing words. He commonly 
beheads his victims with a single stroke of his blade. 
He wastes no words, either in praise or in censure. 
His heartiest eulogy of the politician in whom, appar- 
ently, he most fervently believes, was uttered Avhen 
he called him "the grim soldier who held New Or- 
leans." It was the same stern economy of words that 
labelled Abraham Lincoln "the slave-hound of Il- 
linois." In twenty different speeches he has called 
Mr. Seward a bottle of cologne-water, placed him in 
opposition, now to nitric acid, and now to the Rock of 
Gibraltar, and there left him. There is little in these 
phrases when they are read ; but in the manner of 
their utterance, albeit calm and smooth as ice, there 
is a power that electrifies the listener like the sound 
of a trumpet. Who that heard Mr. Phillips say in 
one of his Massachusetts campaign speeches a few 
years ago " I announced that I never again would 
speak to William Claflin," did not feel at the instant 
that William Claflin was withered up and puffed away 
like a rose-leaf; and yet who, reading the remark in 
the faithful newspaper report next morning, could dis- 
cover where lay the eloquence of the arrogant words? 
We have said little, after all, of the eloquence of 
Wendell Phillips, except that it cannot be described. 
No man who has heard it has ever denied its marvel- 
lous power ; no man has ever imitated it, or conveyed 
a conception of its fascination to another; no man 
who has not heard it will ever know what makes it 
great. And this, after all, is the fate of the orator, as 
of the actor and the singer : he is of priceless value to 
his own generation ; but to those to come, or to the 
world outside his own circle, he is nothing but the glitter 
of a name. His genius is grander, perhaps, than that 
displayed in any other art ; but it reaches no farther 
than his voice, and its triumphs perish with his life. 



11. 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES 

ON DRAMATIC TOPICS. 



DRAMATIC TOPICS. 



HOW OLD WAS HASILET? 

THE new analysis of " Hamlet," which Mr. Richard 
Grant White has added to the already mountain- 
ous accumulation of commentaries on the same subject, 
contains many fine suggestions in regard to the mean- 
ing and j^urpose of the tragedy. Some of them may 
have been offered before by English and German 
writers, but most are new and original ; the form in 
which they are put is unique and attractive ; and the 
appearance of the article in a popular magazine at 
this time, when a concurrence of circumstances has 
directed the attention of the public of our principal 
cities anew to " Hamlet," cannot but do good in show- 
ing the host of readers and theatre-goers how much 
there is below the surface to reward attentive study 
in this and every other work of Shakespeare. 

Mr. White's comments upon Hamlet's assumed in- 
sanity, his weakness of purpose, his ambition, his 
intellectual quickness, and all the traits of his charac- 
ter as skilfully developed by the dramatist in the suc- 
cessive incidents of the play, seem to us very judicious 
and well considered. His interpretations of many 
special points are ingenious ; as, for example, where he 
points out that, in the frenzy to which Hamlet gave 
way at Ophelia's grave, he claimed the royal rank, 



100 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 

his right to which he had long been brooding over, 
by announcing himself as The Dane. But there is 
one theory to which the critic has been led in his mi- 
nute study of the develoj^ment of Hamlet's character 
which seems to us so preposterous that the autlior 
himself must abandon it now that he looks at his 
words in the cool permanence of print. This is noth- 
ing less than that Hamlet was only twenty years old 
when his father died, and was thirty when he killed his 
uncle, having spent ten years in the irresolute debat- 
ings and devices which are the theme of the traged}'. 
Absurd as this seems at hrFt glance, Mr. White finds 
some ground for it in Hamlet's studentshi]? at Wit- 
tenberg, and in the references to his youth in the 
early part of the play. But we cannot allow Shake- 
speare to be so misrepresented. Though forced to 
disregard the unities in his historical plays, he was too 
consummate an artist to violate the consistency of 
time and place when he was not compelled to do so ; 
and in his ideal tragedies, and in " Hamlet" especially, 
he has not only himself been consistent, but has taken 
pains to tell the spectators of the lapses of time in 
the course of the drama as plainly as modern drama- 
tists set them down in the play-bills, and so that it 
would seem that he who runs through it at railroad 
speed must understand. 

Hamlet the elder died ; " within a month " his wid- 
ow married his murderer ; when he was " two months 
dead," his ghost appeared to Hamlet the younger, and 
the Prince thought himself ready to sweep to his re- 
venge " with wings as swift as meditation or the 
thoughts of love." But he delayed and debated, 
feigned madness, devised plans ; and the dramatist 
has very clearly indicated how much time his irresolu- 
tion thus consumed by Ophelia's statement in the 



HOW OLD WAS HAMLET ? 101 

play scene, that it is now four months since the King 
died. That very night Hamlet killed Polonius ; the 
next day he was sent to England ; and here occurs the 
only other break in the continnons action of the play. 
It was long enough for Hamlet, " two days old at sea," 
to be transferred by accident to the deck of a pirate, 
and so brought home again, arriving on the same day 
of the death of Ophelia, in the new madness caused 
by her father's loss. On the day of her funeral the 
dramatist, that we may be in the dark about nothing 
necessary to a full understanding of his conceptions, 
goes out of his way to inform us that Hamlet was 
thirty years old. It all holds together like a chain ; 
and on any comparison of the text of the tragedy it 
will be seen that its auxiliary incidents — the mission 
of Cornelius and Yoltimand to Norway and their re- 
turn, the journeys of Laertes, the expedition of For- 
tinbras — all fit in precisely ; not, perhaps, with any 
known guide-book of geography and of the modes of 
locomotion of any particular age, — for these things 
Shakespeare cared very little about, — but with each 
other and with the main action of the tragedy. 

It seems incredible that an acute critic like Mr. 
White should be led away into so manifest a perver- 
sion of the intention of the writer he has studied so 
long as to stretch these few months into ten years ; 
but it is a new illustration added to many of the 
delusions which the best minds will fall into by dwell- 
ing upon and magnifying detached texts in which 
they fancy they have found a new meaning. A like 
instance of error, but in a matter of far less con- 
sequence, is seen in the assertion that the Ghost, when 
Horatio and the soldiers saw it, disappeared upon 
"the midnight cock-crowing." The passage of every 
hour is made clear in the tragedy, though in the stage 



102 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 

version all is jumbled together. Francisco was re- 
lieved at twelve, "most carefully ujoon the hour"; 
after some chat, "the bell then beating one," the 
Ghost appeared. After it " stalked away," the watch- 
ers beguiled the slow passage of the night with talk 
of politics and history; it came again, and disappeared 
upon the note of " the bird of dawning," " the trum- 
pet to the morn"; and immediately the coming of the 
day was seen in the east. It is most curious, upon 
any examination of Shakespeare upon such little 
points, to see in what workmanlike fashion he wrote ; 
how carefully he gathered up all loose threads, not 
as if constructing hurriedly for the stage of his 
theatre, but as if foreseeing how the critics of future 
ages would pry and scrutinize, and determined to 
make all clear to the dullest, and all smooth to the 
most captious. Yet he saw no such coming critics, 
and the perfection of his detail was merely the fruit 
of the artistic instinct, stronger in his mind than 
in that of any other man from the birth of the 
world. 



.THE TIME OF "HAMLET." 

It is half a year or more since Mr. Kichard Grant 
White, in the revival of discussion and criticism of 
" Hamlet " started by Mr. Fechter's remarkable per- 
formance of the leading character, took the amazing 
ground that Shakespeare's intent was to show the 
Danish prince at the beginning of the play as a youth 
of twenty, and at the end of it as a man of thirty, 
ten years being spent in doubtings and vacillations 
between the demand of the Ghost for revenge and 



THE TIME OF "HAMLET." 103 

the killing of the King and Queen. A little examina- 
tion of the text showed that even this careful and 
learned Shakespearian scholar had been hasty in 
adopting a forced interpretation, which not only the 
instinct of the reader but the explicit words of the 
dramatist contradicted. But a new attack is made 
upon Mr. White's position in a recent number of 
the Atlantic Monthly by Miss Kate Field, who is 
not content with denying it, but asserts a new theory 
of her own, — that the action of the tragedy covers 
only ten days, four of which are necessarily occupied 
by Hamlet's voyage toward England, " two days old 
at sea," and back again by the pirate ship. This 
theory, which gives only six days to all the host of 
events rej)resented and spoken of, occurs very natu- 
rally in a eulogy of the performance of Mr. Fechter, 
whose Hamlet has been found fault with because he 
has no irresolution in his temperament, no apparent 
tendency to doubt and delay, but would surely have 
swept to his revenge as swift as the thoughts of love, 
instead of stopping to debate about it. If Miss Field 
is right, Mr. Fechter is right. Their conception of 
Shakespeare's idea is the same. But it seems to us 
that they are both WTong, and can be proved to be 
wrong, not by any subtleties of speculative criticism, 
but by a plain citation of the text, which cannot be 
overthrown. 

We need not go over the whole of Miss Field's 
chain, the result of "carefully scanning the play." 
It is all strong as steel except one link. Its weak 
point only need be mentioned. She says that the 
second act must succeed the first with only a day's 
interval, because Hamlet's purpose of assuming mad- 
ness is hinted at the end of the first act, and its first 
symptom appears early in the second ; " not more than 



104 DKAMATIC TOPICS. 

a day is likely to have elapsed between the concep- 
tion and the execution of his plan." This is assuming 
a great deal too much. What Hamlet says is, — 

" I, perchance, hereafter shall think meet 
To put an antic disposition on." 

This by no means necessarily implies an immediate 
assumption of madness. That it does not imply that 
is plainly shown by the dates the dramatist is careful 
to give. In the first scene in which he appears, the 
same day of the appearance of the Ghost, Hamlet 
says his father is 

" But two months dead, — nay, not so much, not two." 

In the third act, the play scene, — which by Miss 

Field's chronology is only two days after the Ghost's 

revelation, — Hamlet in his assumed madness says, — 

" Look you, how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died 
within two hours." 

Ophelia promptly and simply replies, 

"Nay, 'tis twice two months, my lord! " 

In this statement Hamlet at once acquiesces. 

On the testimony of tliese two witnesses, Hamlet 
and Ophelia, made in each case before the witness can 
be impeached by any suspicion of the clouded intel- 
lect which afterwards might be suspected to confuse 
their notions of dates, we may be content to rest our 
case. We would take the word of this unfortunate 
lady and gentleman in this matter for a thousand 
pound, against any opinion of any actor or critic who 
ever lived. Shakespeare never put the statements 
into their mouths without meaning something by it ; 
and he meant to tell us that it was two months after 
Hamlet heard of his father's murder before he made 
up his mind to test his uncle's conscience by means 
of the players, just as plainly as he meant to tell us 



THE TIME OF "HAMLET." 105 

Hamlet's age by the grave-digger's conversation in the 
last act. All the other dates in the play are indicated 
just as clearly, and Miss Field states the rest of them 
all rightly. 

But if corroborating evidence were necessary fur- 
ther to fortify this impregnable proof, there is plenty 
of it. Ophelia would not say, 

" My lord, I have remembrances of yours 
That I have longed long to redelivei'," 

if she had only taken the notion since the day before 
yesterday. N"or, in the same scene, if she had ]3arted 
from Hamlet within forty-eight hours, would she greet 
the Prince with the words, — 

" How does your Honor for this many a day? " 
Nor can we readily imagine Hamlet explaining to 
his friends, " I have of late lost all my mirth," and so 
following, if he had only adopted his disguised bear- 
ing the day before. It is obvious also that the King 
would not have had time to send for Rosencrantz to 
pry into the causes of Hamlet's conduct on such a 
supposition. Nor is it natural to suppose that Polo- 
nius would send an agent to carry money to his son, 
and spy into his behavior in Paris, the very day after 
Laertes himself had sailed from Denmark. Polonius 
himself is not exactly the best witness to call as an 
expert in cases of insanity ; but his phrases are worth 
something as shedding light on the passage of time, 
and we find that his theory is, that, after the repulse 
of his love-letters and visits by Oi^helia, Hamlet 

" Fell into a sadness; then into a fast; 
Thence to a watch ; thence into a weakness ; 
Thence to a lightness; and, by this declension, 
Into the madness wherein now he raves." 

Even Polonius would not describe in this fashion a 

tumble through all these stages which took only a 

5* ^ 



106 DEAMATIC TOPICS. 

few hours. In the same connection we may note that, 
in the course of the drama, Fortinbras prepares to 
make war on Denmark; is compelled by his uncle, 
"Old Norway," to desist; turns his armies against 
"the Polack"; marches across Denmark, wins a vic- 
tory, and marches back again in time to be in at the 
deaths of the Danish royal family. Diplomacy and 
arms could not be conceived to accomplish all this in 
ten days, even if Shakespeare were dreaming of the 
telegraph and the needle-gun. In short, it is only 
necessary to admit that Shakespeare wrote with his 
eyes open, and, while disregarding the unities and 
the probabilities, still made the different parts of his 
work hang together, and rarely wrote a blundering 
line, to see that the action of "Hamlet" occupies 
between two and three months, no more and no less. 

The remainder of Miss Field's essay is a very keen 
and clever analysis of Mr. Fechter's rendering of 
Hamlet, pointing out its many beauties with rare 
nicety of discernment. 



HISSING m THE THEATRE. 

If the drama decays and good acting becomes rare 
in America, no small share of the blame must lie with 
that cultivation of amenity which has abolished the 
hiss as a method of criticism. We have mended our 
manners at the expense of our enjoyment. The hiss 
is as obsolete in our theatres as the rushlight and the 
epilogue ; and we doubt if any badness in a play short 
of absolute indecency, any shortcoming of an actor 
less flagrant than manifest drunkenness on the boards, 



HISSING IN THE THEATRE. 107 

would call forth a sibilant rejDi'oof fi*om the audience ; 
and even then the first spectator to venture upon such 
an expression of rebuke would be very likely to be 
made to feel, by the interference of a policeman or 
the dismay of his neighbors, that he was almost as 
much in fault as the offending artist. 

They manage these matters, as they do so many 
others, much better in France. There the hiss is rec- 
ognized, systematized. At the October 023ening of 
the year's season in the provincial cities, several nights 
are set apart expressly to obtain the exj^ression of 
public opinion. The engagements of individual artists 
are often made dependent uj^on it. The programmes 
are so arranged as to introduce the whole comj^any. 
"When the curtain falls, the manager comes forward, 
and calls out, one by one, the names of the different 
actors and actresses. After each name follows a 
pause. If the audience applauds, the artist is ap- 
proved ; if it hisses, he is dismissed. If it is comj^lained 
that this summary disapproval — for which a man or 
woman listens heart-sick with ajDj^i'ehension, his bread 
depending on the verdict — is cruel and heartless, it 
is deemed a sufficient answer to point out that the 
Avhole year's entertainment of the town dej)ends upon 
securing a clever company. The same general prin- 
ciple applies to the reception of plays. It will hardly 
be urged that the French are not a polite people. 
And as a result of this disregard, in the interests of 
art, of what we call j^oUteness, the French actors are 
the best in the world, and the inlays of Parisian dram- 
atists are the magazine from which the amusement 
of both hemispheres is drawn. We do not learn that 
anybody suffers seriously by the practice. People 
who can earn a good living as barbers and ladies'- 
maids are prevented from continuing a hopeless career 



108 DEAMATIC TOPICS. 

on the lower rounds of the dramatic ladder. One poor 
fellow who thought himself qualified as first tenor was 
undeceived by a tempest of hisses at Bordeaux, and 
on the spot, choking with emotion, begged a few 
weeks' trial in a lower position, in which he promised 
to do his best. The audience consented; and the 
young man by hard work rose to a high place on the 
operatic stage of the capital ; but it is doubtful 
w^hether he would ever have found his level if he had 
begun where he wished. 

One of the many evils of the universal American 
complaisance^ which contrasts so strongly with this 
system, is the undue responsibility which it throws 
upon the dramatic critics of the press. Excej^t in a 
few instances where extraordinary success is indicated 
by very great applause, the audience waits dumb as 
an oyster, and gets its opinions from the newspaper 
of the next day. Thus, upon a few men in each city 
is cast in a great measure the regulation, the censure- 
shijD, the very fortunes, of the theatres. The liability 
to injustice is great. A single bad dinner, or an 
attack of spleen, may lead thousands of readers to look 
frowningly on a meritorious play. Or one soft heart 
may awaken false hopes in the most thoroughly un- 
qualified actor. But where a national habit like this 
is once formed, there is slight prospect of any radical 
amendment. We shall look for no hissing judgments 
from American audiences during this generation ; nor, 
were the innovation to be made, would it be at once 
indicative of a trustworthy opinion ; for the power of 
quick criticism comes only with experience, and a 
public needs to be educated into the art of hissing, 
just as much as the player needs to be educated into 
the art of acting. 



"THE NIGHTINGALE" AT SELWYN'S. 109 



"THE NIGHTINGALE" AT SELWYN'S. 

Slow poison and slow music. A stolen child and 
a sham tombstone. Forgery, robbery, murder, treach- 
ery, and an avenging pistol-shot. Blue gauze and 
darkness, and a maniac mother in a drifting boat. 
The chief villain of the Indian mutiny with a tawny 
skin and a French accent, Bahawder Khan, rolling in 
wealth in England, now in a dress-coat and a breast 
sparkling with orders, now in a gorgeous Oriental 
dress and a dagger, attending parties, practising med- 
icine, managing a swindling company, kidnapping 
babies, and popping up at every corner like the fiend 
in a poor pantomime. A hero who is a parson in one 
act and a soldier in another, without needing to be 
either for any purpose in the plot, and who comes to 
nothing in the end. A heroine who makes a tremen- 
dous hit as a prhna-donna in Italian opera in Lon- 
don, and then goes to singing ballads in the streets 
for a living. All these component parts mixed togeth- 
er in about as much confusion as we have enumerated 
them must make a new play by Mr. Robertson, for so 
the bills assure us. But it cannot be the clever dram- 
atist of "School" and "Caste"; such a combination 
would be more incongruous than anything in the dra- 
ma. It may be the work of Robertson the schoolboy, 
done years ago, in his first dreams of seeking fame 
and fortune as a playwright. Or, if not, it is the work 
of Robertson exhausted by the unreasonable demands 
of the managers, crazed by the applause of the public, 
maddened by the censure of the critics, who has found 
his brain unequal to the task of producing a drama, 
and has called in Mr. Wilkie Collins, Mr. Dion Bour- 
cicault, Dr. J. S. Jones, and Miss Braddon, and mixed 



110 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 

the potions they have prescribed for hnn in one in- 
comj^rehensible draught. 

We have not described the five-act play of " The 
Nightingale." Such a task would be impossible. But 
we have hinted at it. We have only to say, in addi- 
tion, that the artists of Selwyn's theatre have entered 
earnestly into an effort to make something of the 
piece. Mr. Robinson has dyed his face and hands, 
and generally disguised himself with great skill, and 
brought a great deal of force and vigor to the per- 
formance of the Franco-Turkish Indian, whose dark 
deeds call on Mr.Koppitz for an aggregate of an hour 
or two of tremulous fiddle-strings. Mrs. Barry has 
summoned a great deal of pathos and pitifulness 
to the rendering of the persecuted heroine. Miss 
Kitty Blanchard has rallied all her vivacity to the 
task of keeping an audience good-humored while 
setting out the Nightingale, in which she has the 
solitary but efiicient assistance of Miss Mary Wells 
in a single act. Mr. Bascomb has dej)arted from 
his usual duties of smooth lines and mild protestations, 
to paint his face with furrows, and go through all 
the agonies of a death by poison in the presence of 
the audience. The management has supplied several 
bushels of snow, and em^^loyed men to turn out and 
relight the gas every few minutes. The gentleman of 
the bass-viol has been willing to do double duty all 
the evening in furnishing thrilling accompaniments. 
Everybody, in short, has done his best. But we can- 
not hope that Mr. Robertson will be informed by cable 
of any transcendent success for his play, as the result 
of all these efforts. There are some things which can- 
not be saved. 



NILSSON IN THE CONCERT-KOOM. Ill 



OTLSSON m THE CO:Kr CERT-ROOM. 

• 

" Oh ! could you view the melody 
Of ever}^ grace, 
And music of her face, 

You 'd drop a tear; 
Seeing more harmony 
In her bright eye, 
Than now you hear." 

EicHARD Lovelace. 

" Nor dare she trust a larger lay. 
But rather loosens from the lip 
Short swallow-flights of song, that dip 
Their wings in tears, and skim away." 

Tennyson, In Mevwriam. 

If there is any one subject more peculiarly than 
another the theme of town talk, it is the new prima 
donna. The benighted peoj^le of the villages have 
no share in the whirl of excitement which the comet 
of the concert-room or the opera creates in her flight 
over the country ; for her notes, her beauty, and her 
graces, so much more costly than wisdom of Emer- 
son or eloquence of Phillips, are luxuries only to be 
afforded by crowded cities, which can offer thousands 
of dollars for an evening's pleasure. So it is the great 
towns only which are talking about Miss Mlsson, 
naming hats and tints after her, buying paj^er collars 
and perfumery because the wrappers bear the image 
of her placid brow and yellow curls, and inquiring, 
Philadelphia of ISTew York, and ISTew York of Bos- 
ton, and Boston of her own fastidious high-priests of 
criticism, " Have you seen her ? how do you like her ? 
and how does she compare with Malibran and Son- 
tag and Jenny Lind and Parepa and all the bright 
procession which has gone before ? " 

A great deal of the town talk which bubbles and 



112 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 

foams through the drawing-rooms on the advent of a 
new singer comes from those who know no more about 
music as an art than they know about Greek; who 
discern no difference between smorzati and solfeggio ; 
who listen witli forced attention, yet find their thoughts 
wandering off now and then in the midst of the most 
intricate and brilHant passages of song ; and who go 
away to chat about the value of the singer's diamonds, 
the pattern of her skirt, the archness of her smile, 
and the winsome simplicity of her manner. Many of 
these men and women, it is true, find themselves 
thrilled to the very soul, without knowing why, by 
the melody of some trivial ballad, or the magnetic 
loveliness of a single clear note in the very centre of 
some gorgeous aria ; but they are sniffed out of the 
way by the oracles of music as an art, who say that 
the lady may do these things well enough, but if she 
is well advised she will do them no more. It is by no 
means to be hinted that this dull portion of the audi- 
ence, whose ears might almost as well be stuffed wdth 
cotton, for all the j^leasure they get through them, 
should stay away, and devote their time to the com- 
edy, the panorama, the lecture, w^hich they can enjoy 
thoroughly, or at least apj^reciate understandingly. 
For fashion dictates such matters as this ; and he who 
lives in town may as well resign his right to a share 
in the talk of the hour altogether, may as well pass 
Thanksgiving Day without a dinner, or Christmas 
without good cheer, as fail to see the singer who hap- 
pens to be the rage. Thus it is that the opinions of 
this section of the public must be consulted, and their 
tastes be deferred to. Thus it is that a singer, though 
her voice be perfection itself, could never attain 
to the first rank in popularity, were she absolutely 
plain of feature or awkward in bearing. And thus it 



NILSSON IN THE CONCERT-EOOM. 113 

is that we may endeavor to crystallize some of the 
town talk about Miss Nilsson, as she flits over the 
land, from the Atlantic to the Mississippi, without ven- 
turing into the discussion whether she sings or merely 
vocalizes, whether the vibrations are judicious or the 
pianissbno exaggerated, or indeed entering at all into 
the wide field of criticism ofiered by her voice and her 
use of it. 

The most marked impression of the Swedish sing- 
er's appearance which the spectator of a single even- 
ing bears away with him is its changeableness. Cleo- 
patra herself had not such infinite variety. Endeavor to 
fix upon the mental retina some asj^ect of this woman's 
presence, and it is gone, and another, different even 
to contrast, has taken its place. This is the reason 
why the photographers have had such bad luck, and 
why the art-stores and the music-shops are flooded Avith 
so many portraits which give no satisfactory idea of a 
living face. A tall, slender figure comes forward on the 
platform, sweeping a long train ; with what serene 
dignity, almost sad, almost stern, she surveys the wait- 
ing, eager throng below ! How like a queen she bears 
herself! And yet a second look, and it is the peas- 
ant girl of Smaland who stands there, fresh from the 
spinning-wheel and the cow-house, wearing her gor- 
geous robes with a certain gaucherie^ like the damsel 
of the farm in unaccustomed masquerade. How sim- 
ple and sweet is the expression of her face, how mild 
the glance of her gentle eyes ! She turns but a hair's- 
breadth to the right or the left, and lo ! it is the wo- 
man of the world who stands scornfully before us, as 
cold as she is graceful, as haughty as she is beautiful, 
knowing the precise efiect of every attitude, the artis- 
tic value of every fold of her costly dress. An instant 
more, and she is an ardent, passionate girl, full of 



114 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 

wild impulses and emotions which she is too inexpe- 
rienced to conceal. As she turns again to one side, 
or as a new thought flits over her mind, she seems 
the skilled, audacious, merry, cruel coquette, bartering 
smiles for hearts, and keeping a record of victims on 
her ivory tablets. But before her fascinations have 
had their full effect, the face is a mask again, or, rather, 
wears another mask, and the keenest eye can see 
nothing there but placid composure, or dreamy devo- 
tion to an exalted ideal of art. All this is not only 
while she is singing, or while she is enacting the her- 
oine of some oj^era, or giving exj^ression to the senti- 
ment of some tender ballad ; it is while we have a 
right to look for the woman herself, as she enters the 
platform or quits it, or as she oddly simulates in silence 
the singing of an air while the orchestra is inlaying the 
introductory strains. She is Dante's Beatrice, and 
then Shakespeare's ; she is the Scandinavian maiden 
whom Arne loved, and in the same instant she is the 
Zenobia of Hawthorne's imagination. And while to 
some observers all these phases are equally apparent, 
and, evanescent as they are, go to make up the impres- 
sion which the mind carries away with it, others catch 
only one aspect ; and thus it is that the listener to 
the comments of the lobbies, or he who gathers up 
the judgments of the next morning, finds current the 
most diverse descriptions of the singer's airs and her 
simplicity, of her ease and her awkwardness, of her 
fervor and her frigidity. 

One obvious inference from this versatility of tem- 
perament is, that the person so made up must be the 
possessor of dramatic power. And this is the salient 
comment which town talk has to make upon the pri- 
tna donna whose coming is the event of the city sea- 
son. America will not half know her if she goes back 



NILSSON IN THE CONCERT-ROOM. 115 

having sung in our concert-rooms only. If the criti- 
cisms of Paris and London are studied, it Avill be seen 
that eulogy dwells far more u^^on her acting than 
upon her singing ; more upon the infusion of her own 
individuality into Margaret and Lucia and Ophelia 
than upon any merely vocal achievement. It is the 
displays of this order of genius that have won her 
the most enthusiastic aj^plause in her concerts here ; 
but such displays on the platform are hamj^ered with 
every disadvantage. Ophelia i^acing up and down a 
narrow area in splendid silks and an elaborate cheve- 
lure, strewing imaginary flowers and accosting imagi- 
nary companions ; Leonora addressing her wails of 
lamentation to a green baize screen, behind which 
stands a corpulent tenor in dress-coat and prominent 
watch-chain, — if these impress the beholder, what 
must be the effect of the same powers exerted with 
all the favoring circumstances of the stage to aid them ? 
It is as if we had seen Edwin Booth only in his reci- 
tation of Manfred at the Philharmonic Concerts ; as if 
our only knowledge of Fechter's Hamlet were derived 
from such elocutionary interpretation of the tragedy 
as he could give in full evening dress behind a read- 
ing-desk, a nosegay in his button-hole, a big folio 
before him, a glass of water at his right hand, and a 
shaded gas-jet at his left. Fate will be very unkind 
if it sends Christine Nilsson back to her rivalry Avith 
Patti in the opera-houses of London and St. Peters- 
burg without giving us one glimpse of her genius as 
it shines across the footlights of the lyric stage. 



116 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 



TWO COMEDIES. 

Two modern plays have this year especially de- 
lighted the English-speaking public of the world, — 
beginning in London a career which extends, not only 
to Liverpool and Manchester and Dublin, not only to 
New York and Boston and Philadelphia and Chi- 
cago, but on and on until the actor, going west from 
San Francisco, with his manuscript of a new piece in 
his pocket, meets the actor coming east from Mel- 
bourne and Victoria, armed in the same way. These 
are " M. P.," by Mr. Kobertson, and " The Two Roses," 
by Mr. Albery, — the works respectively of a veteran 
of many victories, of whom, nevertheless, very few 
people had heard four years ago, and of a young 
knight whose very first tilt has wreathed his crest 
with laurels. They are very much alike in the essen- 
tial elements, although each has a strong and unmis- 
takable individuality of its own. Neither of them 
has a single murder, or even a forgery ; neither de- 
pends for its effect upon a house on fire, or a child 
stolen by gypsies, or a detective in disguise ; they in- 
troduce us to neither burglars nor libertines ; com2:»ared 
with " Othello " or with " Monte Cristo," or with " The 
Colleen Bawn," they are both as mild as milk. They 
deal with the English society of to-day, with no ex- 
tremes of high or low classes to mark a contrast, and 
with no more exciting incidents than the gain and 
loss of a fortune, and the record of a contested parlia- 
mentary election. And it is not even to these inci- 
dents that the attention of the spectator is chiefly 
directed, but to the picture of the minor social cus- 
toms of every-day life, to the delicately drawn love- 
stories in which sentiment rather than passion is mir- 



TWO COMEDIES. 117 

rored, to the sketches of character, and to the wit 
and humor which the two playwrights have infused 
into the dialogue. It is by such traits as these that 
they have charmed the British metropolis, and that 
they have pleased the audiences of a long list of Amer- 
ican cities. 

The day of dramatic literature is jDrobably over, — 
the time, that is to say, when plays are written which 
are interesting and profitable to read. Shakespeare 
wrote his plays with no thought of the printer ; but 
they have been esteemed worth reading by several 
generations, and those of his contemporaries are only 
less valuable than his. From Addison's time to Sher- 
idan's, plays were written almost as much for the j^ub- 
lisher as for the manager ; and often the sale of the 
book brought the author more money than his share 
of the receipts at the box-office. But that all belongs to 
the past. So much of the charm of the best comedies 
of our day depends upon the inarticulate parts, — the 
trifling with a pitcher, with a sewing-machine, a per- 
ambulator, the cooking of a dinner in barracks, — that 
nobody but an actor could read them understandingly ; 
and even were they all as closely packed with wit as 
Mr. Albery's " Two Roses," in which every sentence 
has a pun for a snapper and every rejoinder is a repar- 
tee, they would be pronounced very slight stuff in the 
chilly atmosphere of the library. But this is not con- 
demnation. A play is made to be played, after all ; 
and if a comedy pleases the refined tastes of culti- 
vated people when neatly represented on the stage, if 
its literary and dramatic qualities win the applause 
of the moment and leave an impression of pleasure in 
the mind, the author has not a little to be proud of. 
Mr. Robertson has shot his shaft into the very centre 
of the target again and again, in a series of plays 



118 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 

wHcli have done more than meet the public taste, — 
have educated and improved it ; he has done abso- 
lutely well in "Caste " and " School" and " Ours," and 
almost as well in " Society " and " Home " and " M. 
P." ; and if he has done very badly in " The Night- 
ingale," and one or two other vmfortunate deviations 
from his chosen path, the public is very quick to for- 
get the failures of a successful playAvright, and he has 
no spectre of " Collected Works " and " Complete 
Editions " to bring up his blunders to bear witness 
against him continually. Mr. Albery, following very 
closely in Mr. Robertson's path, though with a vigor- 
ous gait of his own, has produced an admirable piece 
of work in " The Two Roses," with an obvious fault 
in the too great stress laid now and then upon details 
inevitably petty, and with a peculiar merit in the del- 
icacy and wholesomeness of the sentiment, and the 
lively play of the wit which flashes about the stage 
from the rising of the curtain to its going down. 

The American spectator rises from the enjoyment 
of such plays as these with a keen regret that we can 
have such a pleasure only by importation. English 
critics are constantly harj^ing upon the poverty of their 
stage, and sneering at the obligation they are under 
to the French; yet how rich is London compared to 
New York in this respect ! It is an old question why 
we have no American plays worth having, and it is a 
question to which there is no answer. Certainly it is 
neither because our life does not furnish material, nor 
because our audiences lack appreciation. If there 
were a play of American society and manners which 
should give such photographic glimpses of the every- 
day experiences of the war of the Rebellion as " Ours " 
gives of the Crimean War, how people would rush to 
see it ! How the eyes which fill to the brim and run 
over, from the mere tender suggestion of our own war 



TWO COMEDIES. 119 

days, and the music of " Annie Laurie," played by the 
band of the regiment marching by the drawiug-room 
window, would glisten could the strains of the " Hal- 
lelujah Chorus " be introduced with similar skill in a 
drama of our own. Nor is the war our only treasury. 
Our politics are full of rich things for the dramatist. 
The audience which relishes the election scenes in 
" M. P.," though the main " motive " of indispensable 
bribery, is unknown to our camj^aigns, and though half 
the technical allusions are absolutely unintelligible, 
would be carried away with enthusiasm, could a con- 
gressional election be set before them on the stage 
with an equal approach to fidelity. Familiarity with 
the theme breeds contempt in such matters only when 
the work is done clumsily. Let it be managed with 
an artist's hand, like Mr. Robertson's, and there is 
wealth and fame waiting to reward success. Our late 
" domestic institution " was too dark and tragic in its 
elements and situations to fm*nish the best material 
for the stage ; yet how quick w^as the response to Mr. 
Boucicault's use of it in " The Octoroon," though he 
worked, as he always does, with a big brush. We 
have not the gradations of classes which English au- 
thors have used for the framework of hundreds of 
dramas, nor the loose condition of society which gives 
congenial themes to the Parisian playwrights ; but 
we have a field all our own, and all the better because 
it is fresh, in the excitements of New York business 
life, in the countless complications of jJoUtics, in the 
swift shiftings of fortune, in such episodes as Fenian 
raids and oil bubbles and Crispin strikes and Chinese 
experiments. We see nowhere even the cloud of dust 
which may indicate the api^roach of the coming man 
in this department of our national life ; but we wait 
with eagerness and almost with confidence for his 
anival, notwithstanding. 



120 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 



DRAMATIZATIONS. 

" Bless thee, Bottom, bless thee! thou art translated." 
A Midsumvier Nighfs Dream. 

" Fro' first to last, a muddle." 

Stephen Blackpool, in Hard Times. 

The genius of our time and language has its best 
expression in prose fiction. What the drama was in 
EHzabeth's day the novel is in Victoria's. If Dick- 
ens had lived two hundred years ago, he would have 
written plays, and acted in them ; if Shakespeare had 
been born in the nineteenth century, he would have 
given the world a series of stories. But the stage still 
exists, and the public enjoys it as well, appreciates it as 
highly, spends money upon it as liberally, as at any 
time since the days of " Gammer Gurton's Needle." 
In return, the English-speaking stage offers great 
and original actors, but no great and original plays ; 
and in the lack of these it draws its supply from two 
sources, — the fertile ingenuity of the French drama- 
tists, and the rich abundance of the novel-writers. Just 
now, and for three or four months past, the creation 
of comedy in Paris has been checked by the tremen- 
dous tragedy in which Napoleon and William, Bis- 
marck, Trochu, Bazaine, and Von Moltke have borne 
the leading parts with immense armies of supernu- 
meraries and a reckless disregard of expense. So the 
other reservoir has been forced to supply the whole 
demand ; and thus it is that the world of theatre- 
goers has almost a surfeit of " Barnaby Rudge " and 
"Man and Wife" ; that a vivacious little Bohemian of 
California training is going up and down the earth pro- 
fessing to play Little Nell and the Marchioness; that an- 
other sprightly lady, who erst was delighting the pubhc 



DRAMATIZATIONS. 121 

with a chase of a chicken and a dance with her shadow, 
is striving to embody the sombre experiences of Jane 
Eyre ; and that even that saddest tragedy of all our 
literature, the unsolved "Mystery of Edwin Drood," 
has found several dramatists bold enough to cojdc with 
its problem, and to bring its tangled plot to a ha23i3y 
endino; on the stao-e. 

The cause which we have indicated has produced 
just now an unusual proportion of the plays in which 
an adapter seeks to climb into public favor from the 
shoulders of a successful novelist. But from a gener- 
ation past, these productions have been as plenty as 
blackberries. The sensational actors and actresses 
seek for their prey the sensation novelist, and so each 
thrives upon his kind. " Uncle Tom's Cabin " is acted 
yet, though the little girl who used to jDlay Eva has 
grown old enough for Miss Ophelia ; and probably the 
piece will continue to draw occasional crovv'ds just as 
the novel continues to be sold to new readers, long 
after the great crime it pictured has ceased to exist in 
the land. We hear of few people now reading "East 
Lynne " ; but the play is amazingly popular with a large 
class, and managers are besieged with applications to 
revive it again and again. Authors are not apt to be 
pleased with the dramatic versions of their books, and 
no wonder; but they all have to submit to it. Thack- 
eray was almost the only j)rominent novelist of our 
day whose productions were not voraciously snatched 
by managers' hacks ; and he had a compensating cause 
for regret in the fact that his genius was so essentially 
undramatic that even when he wrote a comedy the 
theatre which his friend managed could do nothing 
with it, and he was forced to turn the thing into his 
poorest novel before he could get a penny for it. 
Charles Reade is the one A\T.iter who is so much at 
6 



122 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 

home on the stage that his best book was made by 
himself into a capital play which deserves to become 
standard, and which is so neat and workmanlike in its 
construction that the keenest critic may be defied to 
tell whether " Masks and Faces " is a dramatization 
of " Peg Woffington," or Avhether the tale is the com- 
edy expanded into a book. As for Dickens, the adajot- 
ers began to work njDon him as soon as he began 
to write, without the slightest regard for suitable- 
ness ; even rambling " Pickwick " has been made into 
a I3lay, with thirty or forty characters and ever so 
many acts; and we should hardly be surprised at an 
announcement of " American Notes " as a comedietta, 
or "A Child's Dream of a Star" as a sentimental 
drama. The great humorist, who got angry, as he did 
everything else, with his whole heart and soul and 
strength, devoted a page of " Nicholas Nickleby " to 
a very wrathful excoriation of a presuming j^lay wright 
who had put the story on the stage before it was near 
comj^letion, and forced the novelist to devise a new 
and somewhat absurd conclusion in self-defence. The 
passionate young author made out the dramatizer to 
be far more wicked than the pickpocket. But even 
Dickens acquiesced in the inevitable in the later years 
of his life ; he made treaties with the theatres, made 
sure that the adaiDtation was confided to friendly 
hands, and paid compliments to actors and actresses, 
who assumed his characters, — O, how far from as well 
as he could play them himself! Indeed, one of his 
last Christmas stories, written in conjunction with 
Mr. Wilkie Collins, was planned less as a literary 
work than to give an opportunity for the display of 
the powers of his friend, Mr. Fechter, in the charac- 
ter of Obenreizer, — a character, by the way, a per- 
formance of which thousands of the American admir- 



DRAMATIZATIONS. 123 

ers of the novelist and the actor are waiting impa- 
tiently to see. 

It remains to be said that a novel, which affords the 
very highest pleasure to cultivated people in the read- 
ing, becomes, when adapted for the stage in the usual 
way, almost unbearable stuff to the same class of 
minds, though to a lower order of tastes it is very en- 
joyable in its new form. Those who cannot appreciate 
the charm of the literary work can relish the play ; but 
to those who can fully apj^reciate the novel the j^lay 
is an offence. Who that can enter into the spirit of 
the exquisite fun of the Marchioness, bjoad but still 
tender, almost fircical, perhaps, yet almost tragic too, 
does not feel insulted by the travesty of the small 
servant which Mr. John Brougham and Miss Lotta 
have devised between them, — a bold, eccentric crea- 
ture, who plays a banjo and dances a clog-dance, and 
who bewilders an audience with the fi-eaks of her 
heels. As to the Little Nell which the same actress 
offers in the same play, it is not to be spoken of with- 
out overstepping the bounds of proper indignation. It 
is as if a trained monkey — and one rather poorly 
trained at that — were to offer to fill the character of 
Desdemona. The success of Mr. Stuart Robson in 
his performance of Simon Tapj^ertit has become a 
tale of two cities ; but the spectator who knows 
" Barnaby Kuclge " cannot help wishing that the ex- 
travagant drollery of voice and action, the comic 
songs and imitations of actors, were exhibited in some 
burlesque which professed to be nothing else, and not 
where to the fresh mind they will inevitably color and 
pervert the impressions of Dickens's character to be 
gained in the future. But there are many people so 
deficient in imagination that a character, however 
vividly drawn, is hfeless to them in the printed page, 



124 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 

but can be realized and enjoyed when distorted in 
the convex mirror of the actor's fancy ; and these are 
they who iiock to enjoy the dramatizations, and after- 
wards can read the book with a keen pleasure, so that 
profitable sales of the novel are made at the box-office 
of the theatre to a public who never otherwise would 
read it. 

Those at all fastidious are repelled, not only by the 
transformed characters of the stage versions, — in whom 
they can recognize nothing of their old friends but 
the costume, — but also by the confusion into which 
the framework of the novel is thrown by the unskilled 
literary carpenters of the theatre. The labyrinth of 
incident which Mr. AYilkie Collins has elaborated in 
scores of closely packed chapters cannot fairly be 
made intelligible to an audience in a half-dozen scenes. 
The exigencies of the stage even divorce Barnaby 
from his Raven, and in the same way cut the events 
of the story from their proper connection, until he 
who has not read the book cannot understand, and he 
who has read it cannot endure, the play. This is in a 
measure to be avoided by a playwright with discern- 
ment enough to select a single episode of the story 
for dramatic j^resentation, and to rej^roduce only the 
characters necessary for its development, as Mr. An- 
drew Halliday did with " David Copperfield " in his 
"Little Em'ly," and as he is likely to do with "The 
Old Curiosity Shop " in the " Nell " which he now has 
in hand ; but it is inevitable with those artisans who 
undertake to cram the essence of five hundred pages 
into an evening, and to bring several scores of prin- 
cipal and minor characters together upon the stage. 
It is a task like that of the fisherman in the Arabian 
story who has to get an Afrite, towering to the clouds, 
into a little black jar, — only a miracle can accom- 
plish it. 



TWO ENGLISH ARTISTS. 125 



TWO ENGLISH ARTISTS. 

*' A foreign nation is a kind of contemporaneous posterity." — The 
Recollections of a Man of the World. 

" The lady dotli protest too much, methinks." — Hamlet. 

" On their own merits modest men are dumb." — The Heir at Laiv. 

The English stage is not rich in great tragic actors. 
Garrick and Edmund Kean have left no successors in 
this generation. From Mrs. Siddons to Mrs. Scott- 
Siddons is a long stej^, but it is fairly tyj^ical of the 
inferiority of the genius of our time to that of the 
days when there were giants on the London stage. 
Comedians are plenty enough ; the era is favorable to 
them ; but the England of to-day furnishes no wearers 
of the buskin. It is a Frenchman who has given to 
London its greatest theatrical excitement for the j^ast 
decade ; it is an American girl who draws the largest 
houses in all the British cities year after year. Thus 
it is that it is worth while for foreigners to devote 
the prodigious labor necessary for acquiring the com- 
plete mastery of a new tongue in mature life, to satisfy 
the earnest demand of the English-speaking jDublic for 
good serious acting. Philosophy might find a reason 
for this in the training and habits of thought, the 
literature and politics, of the English community, and 
might point out subtle lines of connection between 
Leech and Thackeray and Toole and Buckstone, be- 
tween the peaceful j^olicy of Gladstone and Bright, 
and the absence of any brilliant light from the English 
stage. But we do not care to follow the matter so 
far, and only speak of it as having a bearing upon the 
visit to our own cities this season of two English 
artists of the loftiest aspirations, and to explain why 
we need not dofi* our hats and fall on our knees at 



126 DEAMATIC TOPICS. 

once upon the advent of Miss Isabella Glyn and Mr. 
Walter Montgomery, but may test their quality by 
the same cool criticism which we should give to 
Americans making the same attempts to win the 
public favor. 

The lady and gentleman do not come in company, 
but their ambition lies very nearly on the same line ; 
so that while Miss Glyn was reading Cleopatra in New 
York, Mr. Montgomery was playing Antony in Boston. 
There may be objection to treating them both as Eng- 
lish, since one is a Scotch woman, and the other was 
born within sight of the steeples of New York ; but it 
is the London stage which has given them their train- 
ing, and to the London press and public they owe their 
rei^utations. So it seems fair to sj^eak of them both 
as English products, and to deal with them both to- 
gether, — the more so as both of them, and the gen- 
tleman especially, have come heralded by that florid 
and patronizing style of advertising which, in view of 
the notorious poverty of the English stage to which we 
have alluded, is doubly offensive. It may give a Yan- 
kee a friendly interest to know that Charles Dickens 
admired the readings of Miss Glyn ; but it is surely an 
impertinence to expatiate to us on the favor shown to 
Mr. Montgomery by the Prince of Wales and the 
royal family. His Royal Highness has tastes which 
make him a better judge of the antics of Schneider 
than of any acting in " Hamlet " ; and we who have 
produced Edwin Booth and Charlotte Cushman and 
Joseph Jefferson are not to be awed out of the free 
exercise of our own good judgment by such august 
recommendations. 

Miss Glyn's portraiture of Cleo2:)atra may be made 
the subject of much honest commendation. Pier read- 
ing of the play is a frame for this, and nothing more ; 



TWO ENGLISH ARTISTS. 127 

all the other characters come like shadows, so depart. 
It is evidently the result of long and loving study; in 
reckoning its shortcomings, the extreme difficulty of the 
part must be considered ; and in comparison with her 
her large and vigorous handling the efforts of ordinary 
actresses seem tame and dull. She does not lead us 
to imagine Cleopatra in the guise of the British matron 
of the period, for a description of whose type the 
reader must be referred to the memorable paragraphs 
in Hawthorne's essay on " Leamington Spa " ; but she 
achieves what is perhaps more difficult, in creating 
upon the mind's eye of the spectator a distinct con- 
ception of the Egyptian queen in her varying moods, 
in her lion-like love and her tiger-like hate, quite dis- 
tinct from the personality before him. As she suc- 
ceeds in doing so much in the reading-desk. Miss Glyn 
is perhaps wise in avoiding the stage, even though in 
her youth her best victories were won there ; for there 
are many obstacles to be overcome in the acting wliich 
do not stand in the way of the reader. And, having 
said so much in praise of Miss Glyn's reading of her 
favorite character, we are bound to make admissions 
which bring us back near our starting-point. With 
all her richness and power of voice, with all the energy 
wdiich makes possible such an enormous sustained 
effort as each of her evenings, with all the force and 
ardor which she throws into her interpretation of 
Cleoj^atra, — we do not recognize a spark of the fire 
of genius in it. There is a constant straininsf for ef- 
feet, shoAvn even in overloading the minor passages 
with passion, in the determination that nothing shall 
be lost. But after all the effect is not attained. The 
audience is never thrilled to the spinal marrow by the 
magnetic fire of grand acting, as we can all remember 
to have been thrilled when we first heard Ristori in 



128 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 

Mary Stuart taunt Elizabeth with the frailties of 
Anne Boleyn ; when we first saw Ki]) Van Win- 
kle driven out in the storm ; when Meg Merrilies 
rushed upon the stage without speaking; when Ed- 
win Booth's Brutus ordered the execution of his 
son. We go away with heads quite cool and pulses 
entirely calm, discussing the passages where the 
reader's emphasis has missed the plain meaning of 
the text ; and, seeing her again in w^oful misinteq^re- 
tations of " Macbeth " and " Hamlet," our verdict is 
confirmed. Miss Glyn is an actress of rather more 
than ordinary ability, who by sympathetic study has 
drawn very near to one of Shakespeare's greatest and 
most difiicult creations ; but she has no tragic genius, 
nor even that inferior but still rare faculty which 
qualifies one properly to read to an audience of cul- 
ture and intelligence a play of greatness thoroughly 
familiar and crowded with individualized characters. 
That it is possible to possess this power without being 
a very great actress, Fanny Kemble proved to the 
world in those "precious evenings, all too swiftly 
sped," the charm of which Longfellow has crystallized 
in a sonnet telling, — 

" How our hearts glowed and trembled as she read, 
Interpreting by tones the wondrous pages 
Of the great poet who foreriins the ages, 
Anticipating all that shall be said." 

But Miss Glyn has given us no new proof. 

Of Mr. Walter Montgomery substantially the same is 
to be said. The imj^ersonations of Shakespearian char- 
acters, with which he is making the tour of our cities, 
shoAV a noble ambition ; and this is much : for if to love 
the Lady Elizabeth Hastings was a liberal education, to 
admire Shakespeare ardently is a great deal in an act- 
or's favor. But we may safely go further, and credit 



TWO ENGLISH ARTISTS. 129 

Mr. Montgomery with intelligent assumptions, which is 
much more than was to be expected from the author 
of such amazing advertisements and childish manifes- 
toes as it his habit to pelt the public with through the 
newspapers. He bears himself handsomely, and plays 
with spirit and good discretion. But for genius, we 
are unable to detect the slightest gleam of it. 

Now we fear that, for an entirely successful starring 
tour in this country at this time, some degree of 
genius is absolutely essential. In a London fog, a 
link-boy's torch may pass for a star ; but where other 
luminaries are shining clearly to compare it with, 
there is no reason for rating it above its value. Both 
the artists of whom we have spoken are entitled to 
a cordial welcome here, as faithful, honest students, 
doing careful and conscientious work in a department 
where such attempts are rare at the best, and only 
mediocrity and quackery are common. But if — in a 
vanity which we may speak of without delicacy, since 
it seems to be a professional trait and not a weakness 
to be jDcrsonally responsible for — they have looked for 
a career here of greater brilliancy, such as genius of 
the first rank commands, whether displayed on the 
stage, the concert platform, or in the reading-desk, 
they are doomed to a common disappointment, which 
no courtesy of the critical pen can alleviate. 



6* 



130 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 



EDWm BOOTH'S "RICHELIEU." 

"Even those you were wont to take such delight in, the tragedians 
of the city." — Hamlet. 

" The Minister is here." — Twelfth Night. 

If the spirit of Shakespeare ever exercises the priv- 
ilege which he himself bestowed upon the ghosts of 
so many of his characters, and comes back for night 
walks about the earth, it must often have occasion for 
such degree of surprise as spirits are capable of It 
would encounter various Globe Theatres scattered 
about the world, all named in honor of the establish- 
ment where the new tragedy of " Macbeth " had its 
"first performance on any stage"; it would find 
" Hamlet " and " Othello " more in favor than in their 
fresh days, and played with many subtleties of in- 
terpretation never dreamed of when the author him- 
self took minor parts and suj^erintended rehearsals. 
But it would also find that scenes indicated in Eliza- 
beth's day by roughly painted signs posted among 
the fashionable gallants who sat upon the rush-strewn 
stacre — "This is an Orchard," "A Room in the Pal- 
ace" — are now pictured to the eye by elaborate 
achievements of painting and canvas architecture, cost- 
ing more money than Shakespeare ever possessed, and 
their splendor made a leading feature of the entertain- 
ment. To pass from the impossible to the merely im- 
probable, it would be really worth the while of the 
venerable baronet who has written the most popular 
plays of our era to make a trip to this country to see 
with what a rare combination of taste and magnifi- 
cence an American actor and manager has placed 
upon the stage his favorite drama, in the production 



EDWIN BOOTH'S "RICHELIEU." 131 

of " Richelieu," to run, as the custom is, for the entire 
winter, at Edwin Booth's theatre in New York. 

If Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton were to act upon 
this suggestion, and make a pilgrimage to New York, 
his taste for the gorgeous and superb, as it is indi- 
cated in his own rhetoric in prose and verse, could 
not fail to be struck by the rich dress in which his 
play has been presented to the American public. He 
would note that the opening scene — a gambling- 
room in the house of Marion de Lorme, wdiich the 
exigencies of the stage commonly require to be rep- 
resented by a meagre "front flat" — is a rich and bril- 
liant aj^artment, elegantly furnished and ornamented, 
the gamesters who are plucking that gay pigeon, De 
Mauprat, occupying an alcove in the rear, so that 
it is not an absurdity for the political conspirators 
to be talking over their intrigue in the main apart- 
ment. He would see this elaborate stage-j^icture give 
place, as easily as the phantasmagoria of the magic- 
lantern dissolve one into another, to the room in the 
Palais Cardinal, where the premier of Louis XIII. 
carries on the affairs of state, — a room in a palace, 
indeed, with walls and ceiling, doors and fireplaces, 
no less fliithfully presented to the eye than the furni- 
ture of the period, the carved chairs and footstools, the 
quaint clock, the armor, the busts and statues in various 
niches, the odd little brass disk, which, struck by a 
hammer, summons different attendants, according to 
the number of blows given, — all faithfully studied 
from museums and antiquarian research, and having 
the effect, not of painful imitation, but of reality it- 
self. The Gothic chamber in the Castle at Kuelle is 
another picture of the same sort, widely different in 
detail but equally striking in effect. The noble open- 
air view of the gardens of the Louvre, with the lofty 



132 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 

flight of steps leading to the door of the palace, 
whence the king descends, attended by his staff of 
gentlemen in waiting, and its marble statue of a 
classic figm'e standing boldly out upon its pedestal, 
seems the climax of the series of stage pictures ; but it 
in turn is surj^assed by the grand saloon of the Louvre, 
copied from the historic reality, even to the broad arch 
of the ceiling, frescoed with rare grace of design and 
softness of coloring, and with every detail in harmony, 
which deserves to be long remembered and carefully 
studied, as the finest achievement of the kind ever 
reached on the American, or perhaps on any stage. 

But after all has been said that there is room for 
upon this theme, — and we might continue at much 
greater length did space permit, — after the full 
splendor of the stage setting is ajDpreciated, and the 
great expenditure of money is taken into account, it 
is not to be forgotten that if this were all, the jDraise 
to be awarded would be that which might be giv- 
en to a panorama or a puppet-show. The devising of 
these difficult and admirable pictures requires art, but 
not the highest art. Acting, nevertheless, remains 
the province and the glory of the stage. We give 
credit to our public in the belief that, with all the 
finery of Booth's Theatre in scenery and costume 
redoubled, if that were possible, they would not go 
to see " Richelieu " if it had not the tragedian's genius 
to illumine the prmcipal part; and we go further, 
and believe that his genius would attract the public 
as it does now, were he to play among the signboard 
substitutes for scenes of the old Globe Theatre. It is 
to his honor, therefore, that he devotes such liberality 
and study to the setting of the jewel; and its richness 
should not be permitted to distract attention from the 
gem itself. 



EDWIN BOOTH'S "RICHELIEU." 133 

Edwin Booth's Richelieu, if not so magnetic as his 
Hamlet, so intense as his lago, so simply great as his 
Brutus, must still rank among the noblest of his as- 
sumptions. It is not merely, a cluster of fine histrionic 
bursts of passion, but a symmetrical and artistic "svhole 
as a conception of character, — perhaps not histori- 
cally faultless, but consistent with itself and w4th the 
play, which is all that can reasonably be required in 
historical drama. Mr. Booth does not couo;h throuah 
the part, like an actress in the last scenes of " Camille," 
as some j^layers think it needful to do ; but it seems 
to us that he indicates the age and infirmity of the 
Cardinal sufficiently, and adheres faithfully to these 
conditions in every step, every tone, every gesture. 
He has succeeded, as he has improved and i3olished 
his rendering from year to year, in elaborating the 
nice details without sacrificing the sahent points of 
power which such elaboration is apt to endanger. 
Thus his threat of the curse of Rome in the fourth 
act is as great in its way as any efibrt known to the 
stage of our time, suggesting the traditions of Edmund 
Kean, and producing an electric efiect which leaves 
the listener without the power to criticise details or 
methods ; but we place close beside it, as worthy of 
almost equal praise, those delicate touches of the 
earlier scenes, in w^hich the humor of the old states- 
man, his irony and sense of fun, are delineated. Every- 
where there are nice bits of detail, w^hich show the 
careful artist ; and among them we cannot omit to 
notice Richelieu's grasping at his little crucifix when 
the steel of the assassin is close to his heart, and his 
fumbling of the symbol all through the defiance which 
the unarmed priest hurls at the mailed murderer, — 
so much does it convey, to those who notice it, of the 
character of the man and the emotions of the moment. 



134 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 

But we cannot continue to point out the little traits 
of excellence which go to make up the complete and 
admirable whole. 

Mr. Booth has chosen, to surround himself with 
matchless scenery and proj^erties rather than with 
actors of noteworthy skill in the minor parts ; but 
the latter are not so easily obtained, even with money, 
and the public must be reconciled to a little less than 
absolute excellence somewhere. 



OPERA BOUFFE AND ITS MANAGER. 

" A French song, and a fiddle, has no fellow." 

King Henry VIII. 
" Unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul talk." 

The Mash of Comus. 
" Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale. 
Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man ; 
And bitter shame hath spoiled the sweet world's taste, 
That it yields naught but shame and bitterness. 

And he that stands upon a slippery place 
Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up." 

King John. 

When the foulest phase of French opera was at its 
height in New York, the chief ap|)lause in that infa- 
mous work, " Genevieve de Brabant," even the motif 
of which is unspeakable to modest ears, was won by a 
skilful actor in the part of a comic soldier. His droll 
gestures and grimaces became the sensation of the 
hour; and the little scene in which he appeared had 
to be rej^eated again and again every night, amid the 
applause of delighted audiences. .This actor, whose 
name was Gabel, had been in his time a real soldier, 



OPERA BOUFFE AND ITS MANAGER. 135 

and the poWer of drollery which fascinated the audi- 
ences of America was trained in the frolics of French 
camp-fires. When the war with Prussia broke out 
last summer, he joined his old regiment, with patriotic 
ardor undiminished by absence, by j^rofitable occupa- 
tion, or by the less perilous glory of the footlights. 
He handled his chassepot like a serious soldier, and 
not a comic one ; and in the charge which decided the 
fate of the tottering empire, at Sedan, Gabel was 
killed by a German shell. 

We might use this incident as a type of the extinc- 
tion of the class of ojieras in which this man played ; 
for the empire of Louis Napoleon furnished the 
congenial soil in which this degradation of art flour- 
ished, and with the downfall of his power it ought to 
disappear from the fice of the earth. But it has not 
yet perished. Paris, indeed, thinks little of opera to- 
day, either serious or comic ; but we doubt not that, 
with the first return of cheerfiilness and peace to the 
city, its wickedness will blossom out again in full flower. 
And in the American metropolis the prettiest of all the 
theatres is devoted to this same meretricious entertain- 
ment, and more money than ever before is spent in 
fostering it. We find a loophole of j^romise, however, 
in the fact that this outlay, lavish as it is, produces no 
corresponding liberality on the part of the public, and 
that the enterprise is a losing speculation, carried on 
for the amusement and gratification of one man. 
Dazzling and demoralizing entertainments were es- 
sential to the Paris of Napoleon III., and in just the 
same way they are essential to the New York of James 
Fisk, Jr. ; but the seed in the one case was planted so 
deep that the crop will long outlast the sower, while in 
the other the harvest is withered and blighted already. 

It is not our purpose to enter into criticism in detail 



136 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 

of the French troupe now under Mr. Fisk's manage- 
ment. It is a comi^any of very large numbers, with 
many men of that native talent, that inborn comedy, 
that skill in all the minutiae of the stage, that admira- 
ble art which conceals the fact that it is art at all, 
Avhicli is so common among French actors and so rare 
among those of other nations. There is also a large 
l^roportion of those easy, confident, occasionally auda- 
cious women, who know just how far it is safe to go 
with an audience to whom modesty and awkwardness 
are alike unknown, who are to be found in Paris and no- 
where else, though there are strenuous efforts to imitate 
them in other countries, which result only in offensive 
failures. These people combine to give, with a rattle 
and dash, a spirit and fire, which we should like to see 
copied in more wholesome entertainments, the operas 
of Offenbach, — now one in which mere fun predomi- 
nates, so that the purest maiden could enjoy it without 
a blush, if she understands no French, and does not 
follow the libretto too curiously ; and now one so full 
of odious suggestion and abominable stuff of every 
sort that the whole air of the theatre is jooisonous 
with wickedness, and no honest woman who has 
strayed in unawares can look her neighbor in the face. 
But both classes alike fail to attract the jiublic, and 
the management seeks to tempt it by odd devices, 
such as having one character played by three actresses 
in one evening, much as the appetite which retains no 
liking for simple food may be aroused by extravagant 
doses of red pepper. 

But there is not so much material for edification in 
the spectacle on the stage, the merry, brilliant music, 
the bright dresses, and uproarious fun, the foulness 
leering out from amid the gayety, as in the figure in 
the box at the left. It is the man whose name is on 



OPERA BOUFFE AND ITS MANAGER. 137 

every tongue in New York, yet by none mentioned 
with respect, save by a little circle of satellites de- 
pendent upon his bounty. He sits radiant with 
jewels, surrounded with such company as the Prodi- 
gal Son kept, before he consorted with honest pigs, 
gazing now at the show which costs him a little for- 
tune every month, now at the superb structure in 
whose lofty vestibule his initials are emblazoned. He 
has no more worlds to conquer. He draws his rev- 
enues from a great railway, one of the most impor- 
tant thorouglifares of the country, which he has cap- 
tured and put in his pocket. He spends his Avealth 
upon such gorgeous follies as we see before us. He 
gives his spare time to smaller theatres, to hotels, to 
steamboat lines, to country-seats, to militia regiments, 
which he has bought with the 2:)lunder of his j^rincipal 
operations. He is in alliance with the loolitical ad- 
venturers who rule the great city seething without, 
and all its citizens pay tribute to the band to which he 
belongs. His name is mentioned in every newspaper, 
and except in the two or three journals which receive 
his subsidies, always with bitterness and contemj^t; 
but that is of little moment to him, so long as he is 
kept before the public in some way. Every week some 
new scandal, some railroad war, or political intrigue, 
or vulgar quarrel over the favors of the frail, keeps up 
his notoriety. He counts among his servitors various 
judges, who sit upon the bench at his will, and to do 
his bidding ; and foremost on his pay-roll are certain 
distinguislied lawyers, men of brains and social rank, 
who study to protect him in his fortress of robbery 
and fraud. 

It is not a picture on which we as Americans may 
look with pride ; but when we look it fairly in the 
face, it is not one of which we may seriously fear the 



138 DRAMATIC TOPICS.. 

demoralizing influence. For evidently tliis man, who 
has satisfied every dream of his ignoble ambition, has 
even in his own estimate gained nothing like what he 
has lost. He sits in the box of his magnificent theatre, 
or in the gorgeously furnished apartments of his ofiice 
in the same great castle, and every man who looks 
upon him sees a face from which not only have honor 
and shame vanished long ago, but from which the 
knowledge of pleasure has gradually gone too. We 
should not fear to set before him the most impressible, 
the most energetic Yankee boy, such as this worn and 
weary man himself doubtless was thirty years ago, 
and say, " If you can envy this man, imitate him. If 
what he has become pleases you, make his career your 
model." It is not that conscience troubles him ; con- 
science may be snuffed out, in some natures, like a 
candle; but in the darkness that follows, there is more 
of wretchedness than of enjoyment. And, moreover, 
if he listens to the voices which whisper his name up 
and down the metropolis, he knows that all are looking 
for his fall from the semblance of wealth which he has 
attained. He must not only fight his battle every 
day, but he must struggle with the consciousness that 
defeat is the only end which can come, and that defeat 
to him means fiiendless ignominy of the most miser- 
able sort. 

The music strikes up gayly; the laughing' chorus 
echoes from stage and balconies. It is the opera of 
"The Brigands." These gay fellows have a merry 
life ; they corrupt all the innocence of the village, and 
attach youth and beauty to their own camp; they 
plunder with a jest; they disguise themselves as 
beggars to rob the innkeeper, put on his apron to rob 
the traveller, and don his cloak and wig to entraj) the 
next arrival. They swagger and boast, and pick every 



CHARLES FECHTER. 139 

pocket with neatness and despatch. Does the man 
with the waxed mustache and lack-histre eyes, who 
looks listlessly at the j^lay from the manager's box, 
see in their exploits a reflection of his own career? 
The brigands are a jolly crew, says the libretto ; but 
they come to grief in the last scene, even with no 
loftier poetical justice than that of Offenbach ; the 
millions they would have swept into their coffers prove 
to have melted away; they are sure to have their 
masks torn off at last. 



CHARLES FECHTER. 

" His was the spell o'er hearts 

Which only Acting lends, — 
The youngest of the sister arts, 

Where all their beauty blends ; 
For ill can Poetry express 

Full many a tone of thought sublime; 
And Painting, mute and motionless, 

Steals but a glance at time ; 
But by the mighty Actor brought. 

Illusion's perfect triumphs come, 
Verse ceases to be airy thought, 

And sculpture to be dumb." 

CAaiPBELL. 

"The company seemed not much to disapprove of me for an asso- 
ciate. They all, however, apprised me of the importance of the task 
at which I aimed ; that the public was a many-headed monster, and 
that only such as had very good heads could please it; that acting was 
not to be learnt in a day; and that, without some traditional shi'ugs 
which had been on the stage, and only on the stage, these hundi-ed 
years, I could never pretend to please. The next difficulty was in 
fitting me with parts, as almost every character was in keeping." — 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 

Now that Mr. Fechter has fairly abdicated his 
Boston throne, has shown a brief glimpse of his face 



140 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 

to 'New York, has plunged into the smoke of Pitts- 
burg, and is on his way to face the difficult, capricious 
audiences of Chicago, calm criticism of his character- 
istics as an artist seems again to be in order. This 
was clearly impossible during the last weeks of Mr. 
Fechter's stay in his chosen American home, when 
charges and counter-charges hurtled through the air; 
when reporters rushed up and down the earth, and 
out to Long Branch, to contribute spicy dishes of 
scandal to the feast of controversy ; when street-cars 
and club-rooms echoed with the encounters of parti- 
sans, and rival choruses of bitter sneers and exagger- 
ated adulation rose about the retiring manager in 
disagreeable din. Then any question as to Mr. Fech- 
ter's reading of a soliloquy, his conception of a char- 
acter, was complicated with countless side issues, 
entirely irrelevant to art, as to his manners, his 
temper, his sagacity, his punctuality, his arrogance, 
his salary, and so forth. Now it seems possible to 
brush all these aside, and to discuss his acting with 
no more reference to his management of the Globe 
than we should give, in considering the rank of 
Edmund Kean as a tragedian, to the affair with Mrs. 
Alderman Cox. 

Mr. Fechter is to us a great actor. There are some 
candid critics who, stumbling at the threshold upon 
his French accent, or looking chiefly at his Shake- 
spearian interpretation, deny him this rank altogether; 
but, with the most moderate estimate of the j^ersonal 
magnetism of the man, his unquenchable fire and 
vigor, his power over an audience of cultivated peo- 
ple, we cannot but pronounce him an artist of 230sitive 
genius. This very matter of the accent is at the 
bottom of much of the wide difference of opinion 
about Mr. Fechter. To some ears such violence as 



CHARLES FECHTER. 141 

he does to the natural emphasis of an English sen- 
tence is destructive of all enjoyment of it, as a spoon- 
ful of castor-oil might ruin the taste of a beaker of the 
best wine. To others it scarcely interferes at all with 
the brilliancy of the acting itself, which maybe admired 
as we should admire the o-randeur of Niag^ara, thouo-h 
compelled to look at it through tinted spectacles. Tlie 
qualities we have named may command appreciation 
in spite of any such drawback, and custom may 
make it seem slighter every day, until one almost 
forgets that Claude's speeches are not as purely and 
crisply uttered as Pauline's. 

Passing this consideration by, therefore, as we may 
be justified in doing, as incidental and immaterial, we 
recognize in Mr. Fechter's acting in most of his chosen 
parts a glow of genuine fire, which shines in brilHant 
contrast with most of the tragic torchlights of the 
day. It is spontaneous and unforced; it has no rant- 
ing and rushing about the stage, no conventional 
bursts and poses, but always an attainment of effects 
by tlie simplest means, which, for the moment, seem 
like nature itself It is not nature precisely; for the 
plays which Mr. Fechter affects are of a class in which 
nature has very little part. It can only be said that, 
given a Ruy Bias or Edmund Dantes, the manner in 
which this actor plays them is consistent with the 
ideal of the drama and with itself He embodies 
romance as no other actor has done ; he makes every 
man in his audience a Melnotte, every woman feel a 
reflection of the ardor of the Lyons belle, for the hour 
or two the play holds their imaginations. The method 
by which this is attained is beyond analysis. TTe 
may note the never-failing grace, the always pictur- 
esque and fitting gesture, the art which leaves no 
instant without its proper expression of face and 



142 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 

figure, tlie energy wHcli seems to take possession of 
the man and carry him along without an effort ; but, 
after all, we cannot catch and put ujDon paper the 
essential something which goes with all these traits, 
and makes great what would otherwise deserve only 
a tamer adjective. See Mr. Fechter in the last act 
of " Ruy Bias," when he stealthily locks the door, 
snatches his enemy's sword, and announces himself 
his executioner; see him in "Monte Cristo," when, 
just as he has challenged a lad to a duel which is 
to complete an elaborate vengeance, he learns that he 
is planning to kill his own son : see these marvellous 
triumphs of acting, which need not a spoken word to 
interpret the mighty emotions expressed, then try to 
describe them in detail an hour later, and you will 
not expect the critic to enumerate all the elements 
which go to make up the charm of the artist. 

Having said thus much, and leaving unsaid not a 
little as to Mr. Fechter's remarkable elegance and 
finish in light comedy, of which his plays give us flit- 
ting and tantalizing glimpses here and there, we come 
to what justice requires to be said as to the limitations 
of his art. There be admirers who will allow no 
qualification, and whose injudicious praise almost off- 
sets the unfairly harsh treatment which Mr. Fechter 
has now and then encountered. But it ought to be 
no more a cause of offence to point out that there are 
bounds to his greatness than to say that the range of 
Tennyson is narrower than that of Shakespeare. The 
romantic plays in which Mr. Fechter appears do not 
cover the whole corhpass of art; nor has he given 
evidence, dining his American stay, of such a degree 
of versatility as would make it unjust to measure him by 
the standard of such dramas. And, on the other hand, 
his performance of Hamlet has shown how far he may 



CHARLES FECHTER. 143 

fall short of the demands of a difficult Shakespearian 
character. His Hamlet deserves all credit for its bold- 
ness and originality of conception, for its contemptu- 
ous discarding of many unworthy traditions of the 
stage, for its occasional glimpses of the highest dra- 
matic power, as in the passionate scene with Ophelia. 
We cannot doubt that it is the result of more and 
deeper study than any other of Mr. Fechter's assump- 
tions. But, nevertheless, it so violates consistency, 
and so constantly contradicts the plain text of the 
tragedy, it has so many and grievous faults on the in- 
tellectual side, that it must be j^ronounced a radical 
failure. No Hamlet who turns fi*om his father's ghost 
to give his mental attention, as well as his bodily 
strength, to a violent struggle with his friends, and 
stormily scolds them in the presence of the awful vis- 
itor, can command the entire respect of a thinking 
and sympathetic audience through the first act ; and, 
failing here, he. fails at a critical point, which is repre- 
sentative of a multitude of similar shortcomings 
through the j^lay. We need not follow them in de- 
tail, but may sum them up as leading to the belief 
that Mr. Fechter's genius is so alien to the spirit of 
true Shakespearian acting that he cannot give an 
adequate interpretation of any of the English poet's 
greatest characters, — a belief Avhich waits for his first 
essay in America as lago for revision and perhaps cor- 
rection. 

Mr. Feehter, then, is an actor of very great bril- 
liancy and genius in his own chosen walk of art ; and, 
outside that, his ambition is loftier than his ability. 
There are very few artists in the treasured names of 
the world's history of whom more can be said. 

We cannot leave the subject without giving a line 
or two to a recognition of the talent, — which wins 



144 DKAMATIC TOPICS. 

applause from those who decry Mr. Fechter as well as 
from his admirers, — of the English actress who has 
accompanied him in his American tour, Miss Carlotta 
Le Clercq. There is a vigor and polish about this 
lady's style, an evenness and care-taldng about all her 
performances, a grace and ease in her quieter acting, 
only marred by a too obvious effort now and then in 
her more passionate passages, which very few actresses 
of our generation can equal ; and in the great requi- 
site of a supporting actress, in giving essential aid in 
the critical moments of a piece, in being ever ready to 
the second with word and gesture, and never in the 
wi'ong place, she is perfection itself. 



JOSEPH JEFFERSON. 

"Full of tears, full of smiles." 

As You Like It. 

" One touch of nature makes the whole world kin." 

Troilus and Cressida. 

The white-haired, bright-eyed personage whose por- 
trait appears upon another page is familiar all over 
tlie world. The genius of three minds at least has 
combined in his creation : a genial humorist shad- 
owed him forth in a story, a clever artist gave him 
form and costume in a series of pictures, and a great 
actor has given him life ; so that to all of us he seems 
as real and near as an old friend ; nor is the part in 
the matter of the veteran playwright who has fash- 
ioned the original tale into shape for the stage so un- 
important as to be fairly overlooked. The result, the 
solid, substantial entity which we call Jefferson's Rip 
Van Winkle, has been town talk for years in every 



JOSEPU JEFFERSON. 145 

quarter of the earth. If a copy of our paper finds its 
way to Ballarat, his face will be recognized there by 
hosts of people who never heard of the Hudson but 
as Rip's river ; in London, and in all the minor British 
cities, he is known and lovingly remembered; and all 
over this country, where he was recognized last of 
all, he is a household word, and the people to whom 
he is as a stranger seem rare exceptions. 

There are perhaps some of the elements of a prob- 
lem in the great and enduring popularity of this one 
performance of a comedian. The play in itself is the 
slightest of sketches, with not a single dramatic situ- 
ation in it, and with not even probability or possibility 
in its plot to fix the interest of the spectator. Its 
opportunities for scenic display are very slight, and 
even these are seldom improved. Its minor person- 
ages are tedious to the last degree. And as for the 
leading character, he does not make one jjoint such as 
we are accustomed, to in our experience of the stage ; 
he has not one passionate line, not one situation 
thoroughly laughable in itself Describe the Rij^ Van 
Winkle of Josej^h Jeiferson to one who has never 
seen it, and see how little you have to tell, how slight 
an impression your account makes upon the mind! 
It is as untranslatable as the perfume of new-mown 
hay ; yet very few people who have known it fail to 
acknowledge its fascination. 

The problem, however, is not so ditficult as it seems. 
The trait which is at once the peculiarity and the 
charm of this matchless piece of acting is its fidelity 
to nature, — a fidelity w^hich all must recognize, which 
rises above all the conventions of the stage, which 
disdains all appeals for efiect, and yet which has a cer- 
tain glamour of poetry about it which removes it from 
mere shallow realism into the sphere of art. In the 
7 . J 



146 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 

very dress of the character every temptation to ex- 
aggeration is avoided. The dialect is as close to the 
actual speech of a certain class of American Dutch- 
men as the utterance of one Dutchman is like that of 
another ; and there is not an accent nor an inflection 
too much for the sake of the impression so easily to 
be heightened in that way. How jovial, how simple, 
how true, are Rip's drinks, his light talk about his 
wife, his trivial dog-story, with Avhich his part begins. 
It is not a temperance lecture ; it is not remarkably 
bright wit or droll fun ; it is simply a picture, of a 
very ordinary subject, yet a\ liich it requires years of 
study and real genius to paint. Then, when we come 
to the indication, by a few delicate touches, of this 
thriftless, lazy fellow's love for his child, which gives 
the first dignity to his character, how deep and tender 
is the feeling, and yet how few the words which hint 
at rather than exjoress it ! How rich and genuine is 
the humor of the interview with the children when 
their intention of marriage is announced, when the fa- 
ther suggests that he himself has not been consulted, 
and when he reflects that he is not a proper custodian 
for the little lover's savings. It provokes smiles rather 
than laughter; it is the humor of Elia rather than 
that of Pickwick ; but it is of a very rare quality, and 
the stage gives us nothing with which to compare it. 

We cannot follow Mr. Jefferson through the play 
in detail, — through the broader humor of the scene 
in the kitchen, where the tales of the rabbit and 
the bull always seemed to us the least worthy of the 
genius of the actor of all the passages of the play ; 
and the tragic close of the act, where Rip is turned 
out of his wife's house into the storm, and where, at 
once so simple and so subtle is the artist's method, 
the spectator is moved without knowing why, and 



JOSEPH JEFFERSON. 147 

cannot resist emotion for which there seems no ade- 
quate cause in the bearing of the man who sits with 
his back to the audience, and at last goes off with hard- 
ly a word or a gesture to emphasize his exit. The 
next act shows a complete alteration of demeanor, 
such as the changed circumstances justify, and con- 
tinues the strongly marked variety in which we find a 
second and important explanation of the popularity 
of " Rip Van Winkle." It is thoroughly unique, this 
monologue of flesh and blood among a group of gro- 
tesque and silent ghosts; and Mr. Jefferson grasps the 
situation admirably, mingling a very genuine awe and 
fear with a new develo23ment of the humor of the 
character, which makes the episode of the mountain 
one of the most enjoyable things of the drama, though 
the materials are so slight that in the hands of another 
nothing would be made of them. And then the last 
act, — that amazing piece of acting at which we haA^e 
seen one half an audience rapt in silence, with glisten- 
ing eyes and 23arted lij^s, while the other half, natures 
of a different grain, seeing a different phase, were con- 
vulsed with laughter ! To us there is no food for a 
smile in this weird old man, perplexed and bewildered 
in a transformed world, his brain feeling, like his limbs, 
the effect of twenty years of sleep, trembling and tot- 
tering into life again, doubtful as to his identity, and 
strong only in the one strong emotion of his youth, 
his yearning love for his child. His every utterance 
strikes upon the heart with a pang of sympathetic 
pain ; and as we note, as we may do when the play 
becomes familiar, how quietly, how gently, all this is 
done, we are moved to ask, "Is it not thus that trag- 
edy should be played ? Is not the fi-enzy of Lear's 
curse, the shouting of Othello's agony, after all a mis- 
take? And is not this low tone, this depth of sugges- 
tion, this superb forbearance, the grandest possible 



148 DKAMATIC TOPICS. 

achievement of serious acting ? " And all the while 
our neighbor in the next seat is laughing with all his 
might at the old man's cramped legs and dazed man- 
ner, and thinks " Rip Yan Winkle " the funniest play- 
he ever saw. 

Any i3raise of Mr. Jefferson's famous masterpiece 
of acting is in danger of doing him injustice if it 
conveys the idea that he is essentially a one-part actor. 
True it is that of late years he has played this charac- 
ter almost exclusively, and that hundreds have be- 
come familiar with him in the part who have never 
seen him in any other ; and we can credit the report 
that he earnestly craves some new play in which he 
can parallel the triumphs of " Rip Van Winkle," and 
that a fortune awaits the man who shall produce such 
a piece. The opportunities which Irving's legend 
gives for the display of the different phases of his 
versatile genius are not readily to be combined else- 
where. But it does not show all those phases, nev- 
ertheless. Mr. Jefferson is an admirable light come- 
dian ; he can throw pathos all aside, and conquer 
an audience by sheer force of fun, light, airy, and 
delicate as may be conceived. He is a capital low 
comedian also ; and some dry, broad drolleries of his 
in farce linger in the memory after many efforts of 
more ambitious actors in that line have fided away. 
And in burlesque, when he gives full rein to the 
power of extravagance and absurdity which he pos- 
sesses ; when, with a face as serious as the clock, he 
fills an audience with laughter of the wildest kind ; 
when he parodies the gestures of tragedy or imitates 
in his own lithe person the whole entertainment of 
the circus programme, — then the astonished admirer 
of " Rip Van Winkle " discovers that there is latent 
in this consummate artist the comic power of the 
most brilliant burlesque actor America has ever seen. 



THOMAS W. EOBERTSON. 149 



THOMAS W. ROBERTSON. 

" Tired he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er." 

Font's Essay on Man. 

" Then, at your play, behold the fairest flower 
Of youth collect, to hear the revelation ! 
Each tender soul, with sentimental power, 
Sucks melancholy food from your creation ; 
And now in this, now that, the leaven works, 
For each beholds what in his bosom lurks ; 
They still are moved at once to weeping or to laughter, 
Still wonder at your flights, enjoy the show they see. 
A mind, once formed, is never suited after; 
One yet in growth will ever rateful be." 

Goethe's Faust, Taylor's Translation. 

The successful dramatist, whose sudden death has 
followed so closely upon the failure of his latest play, 
was never a favorite with the London critics. He 
made the fortune of a theatre as well as his own, and 
the jDublic made his ears familiar with the music of 
rounds of applause, and of guineas jingling in at the 
box-office. But from the first the journals treated 
him coolly ; they pronounced his brightest play a pla- 
giarism from the German, and covered his latest work 
with derision, as though it were the product of an ut- 
terly incompetent novice. The "Saturday Review" 
never had anything pleasant to say of him; and the 
" Athenaeum " lately gave him the first place in a series 
of papers on the dramatists of the day only to sneer 
at his " teacup and saucer dramas," and to lament 
that there is a public so silly as to enjoy them. In 
one breath he is accused of carrying realism to an 
extreme, in the next of making his joeople talk as no- 
body ever talked in actual life. 

And yet it seems to us that, now that Mr. Robert- 
son is dead, there must be a general recognition of the 



150 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 

fact that he had done something for the drama in his 
time, and that the stage is better than if he had not 
lived, the popidar taste cultivated by his influence 
upon it. We claim this without for an instant assign- 
ing to his plays any rank whatever in literature, in 
which they have no more right than the daily news- 
2:>aper which criticises them. There seems little pros- 
l^ect that even the best of his productions, as "Ours" 
and " School," will be played to any audiences twenty 
years hence; they could not be translated into a 
foreign tongue without evaporating like soap-bubbles; 
no human being will ever read one of them through 
for pleasure. Indeed, with the warmest faith in Mr. 
Robertson's peculiar talent, in his absolute eminence 
in a certain department of art, it is impossible to sit 
down over one of these dramas in the silence of the 
library without a shiver of misgiving as to whether 
it can really have any value whatever. The wit dis- 
appears with the footlights, the tender sentiment with 
the scenery. We might as well waste our enthusiasm 
over the rough structure of beams and laths which 
last night gleamed out against the black sky as a 
piece of gorgeous fire-works. 

Mr. Robinson's popularity has been won to a great 
extent by his love scenes. Let us follow one of them 
a little way : — 

" Sidney. When must you return? 
'^ Maud. At nine. 

^^ Sidney. Twenty minutes. How 's your aunt? 
''''Maud. As cross as ever. 
" Sidney. And Lord Ptarmigant? 
" Matid. As usual, asleep. 

" Sidney. Dear old man, lie does doze liis time away. Anything else 
to tell me ? 

" Maud. We had such a stupid dinner; such odd people. 

" Sidney. Who'^ 

" Maud. Two men of the name of Ghodd. 



THOMAS W. ROBERTSON. 151 

^^ Sidney (uneasihj). Chodcl! 

" Maud. Is n't it a funny name ? Chodd ! 

^^ Sidney. Yes, it's a Chodd name, — I mean an odd name. Where 
were they picked up ? 

" Maud. I don't know. Aunty says they are both very rich. 

" Sidney {uneasily). She thinks of nothing but money. (Looks at 
watch.) Fifteen to nine. Maud! 

'* Maud {in a lohisper). Yes. 

" Sidney. If I were rich — if you were rich — if we were rich — 

'■'■Maud. Sidney! 

" Sidney. As it is I almost feel it 's a crime to love you. 

''Maud. Sidney!" 

We should not dare to say that it grows better than 
this as it goes on, or that the corresponding scenes in 
other plays are of a higher order. But it may be said 
that lovers are always pointless in conversation, that 
this is Mr. Robertson's realism, and that we ought 
to turn to the wit and humor of his plays before 
passing judgment upon them. But we should look 
through the books in vpjn to find anything nearer true 
humor than the maudlin incoherences of old Eccles, 
any nearer approach to a repartee than the remark of 
Cecilia Dunscombe in " M. P.," that it is a pity court- 
ship ends in marriage, because it would be so much 
better if marriage ended in courtship. We doubt if 
there is in any of the comedies a solitary joke so good 
as one of the many in Mr. Albery's "Two Roses," 
where a young man, being ai^proached by a bore with 
a request for "a word in his private ep.r," replies 
quietly, " Select your ear, sir, and proceed." 

Notwithstanding all this, we are willing to under- 
take the championship of the departed writer's title to 
honorable remembrance. If he carried simplicity 
to an extreme bordering upon inanity, he at least led 
us away from the direction in which Mr. Boucicault 
and other prosperous playAvi'ights have been tending. 
"School" is as much better than "Formosa" as "Sir 



1^2 DEAMATIC TOPICS. 

Harry Hotspur " is better than a dime novel. There 
is nothing; of sensationalism of incident in Mr. Robert- 
son's best plays, no chaining a hero down upon a rail- 
way track, nor hurling a heroine off a crag ; there is no 
vulgarity of allusion to catch the favor of the noisiest 
dispensers of applause ; better than all, in an age when 
the greater brilliancy of the French dramatists has 
given a tone to the whole stage, there is no dabbling 
in immorality for the sake of the easy advantages to 
be gained thereby. He has striven only to hold the 
mirror up to the nature of the pleasanter phases of 
the English life as he has seen it. The delight of look- 
ing on at a tea-j)arty on the stage very like the tea- 
table from which the spectator has just risen at home, 
with chat no wittier than there, and lovers no more 
eloquent than the pair one may encounter on the next 
doorstep, may be of a somewhat infantile character ; 
but it is at least harmless, and it may lead the way 
to something higher. We seem to be passing out of 
the era of unnaturalness on the stage, — of Claude 
Melnotte and Mrs. Haller and Camille, with their mor- 
bid, unAvholesome sentimentality; of Joseph Surface 
and Dr. Pangloss, with their artificial construction and 
elaborate wit and humor — into a period when natural- 
ness shall be the first essential, when Jefferson's Rip 
Van Winkle shall be the highest type of excellence, 
and exaggeration the chief of offences. In this transi- 
tion perhaps the j)ump and tubs of Mr. Crummies, the 
burning steamboats of Mr. Boucicault, were essential 
steps; but surely we reach a higher level when we 
come to the placid prettinesses of Mr. Robertson, and 
may trace his influence with gratitude in the plays 
which shall be natural and yet vigorous, healthy, and 
also hearty, modest as Dickens, and yet absorbing as 

Sardou, which we all hope the early future of the 

7* 



THOMAS W. ROBEETSON. 153 

English or perchance the American stage may have in 
store. 

"We have not, in all these rambling remarks, at all 
succeeded in indicating what is the essential charm of 
Mr. Robertson's ]3lays ; and, indeed, it is somewhat 
elusive, and defies analysis. But among its chief ele- 
ments must be set down that minute knowledge of stage 
business which came to this playwright from a lifetime 
of familiarity with the boards, and which in his case 
was combined with a certain refinement and delicacy 
in the use of the devices of the theatre which such 
familiarity does not always give. A leading place 
also, in assigning the causes of his jDOj^ularity, should 
be given to his treatment of the passion of love. 
" All mankind love a lover," says Mr. Emerson ; and 
there is a universal pleasure in seeing lovers tenderly 
and prettily presented on the stage, not in the lofty 
style of "Perdition catch my soul, but I do love 
thee!" but with the airy nothings which to nine people 
out of ten brino; back the as^reeable memories of their 
own enchanted days. If Mr. Robertson has to go to 
Tennyson for the expression of his sentiment, so do 
most of the cultivated young men and maidens of the 
time for the proper utterance of theirs. It is this 
same faithful reflection of the way in which the com- 
monplace people who make up the world tell and 
confess their love, that has made much of the popu- 
larity of Mr. Anthony Trollope ; and it is his books 
which furnish us the best parallel that literature 
affords for the comedies of the writer who died last 
week. It was when Mr. Robertson stepped aside from 
this path of whispering lovers, and undertook to deal 
with historical themes, or with passions of deeper 
shading, that he made the occasional failures of his 
dramatic career. It is sad to remember that the 



154 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 

" War," which was his last piece j^erformed, was one 
of the worst of these failures, and that the hisses of pit 
and galleries were among the last sounds of earth to 
his sensitive ears ; and it would be pleasant if it should 
prove that the " Birth," from his pen, which has yet to 
be played, should prove to be a 2:>roduct of his haj)piest 
inspiration. 



AI:^ AMERICA]^ PLAY, — "SARATOGA." 

" lEppolyta. This is the silhest stuff that e'er I heard. 
" Theseus. The best iu this kind are but shadows; and the worst 
are no worse, if imagination amend them. 

'■' nip2Jolyta. It must be your imagination, then, and not theirs." 

A 3Iidsu7nmer Night's Dream. 

For eleven or twelve weeks one of the theatres of 
New York has been crowded every evening, and at 
many matinees, by j^eople eager to see a purely Ameri- 
can drama, — a comedy by a New York journalist, 
with its scene laid in familiar localities, its j^lot, char- 
acters, and language all of home manufacture. The 
theatre is a very small one, to be sure, and the city 
very big ; but the long run of the play is full of sig- 
nificance, nevertheless, since it is such as very few 
pieces of any character can command. The play has 
been produced also in Boston, and seems to have w^on 
the public favor there, in S]3ite of the general coldness 
of the critics. It is possible that it is only just 
beginning a career of popularity which is to extend 
through all the theatre-going towns of the country, 
on the strength of the prestige given by its metropoli- 
tan success. At any rate, the history of the affair, so 
far as it has gone, decisively refutes the theory that 



AN AMERICAN PLAY, — " SARATOGA." 155 

the lack of American drama is clue to the coldness of 
the public or of the managers, and furnishes a new 
basis for sj^eculation on this ever-fruitful subject. 

Now, what is this j^lay of "Saratoga"? It is an 
extravagant five-act force, of thinner construction and 
shallower wit than any farce of our acquaintance, but 
provoking a laugh now and then by sheer absurd- 
ity, more absurd than that of the wildest burlesque. 
The author has set out with an idea not absolutely 
bad, nor incajjable of development, — borrowing fi-om 
a last summer's novel, by a bright Canadian writer, 
the conception of a fascinating, not positively wicked, 
young man, betrothed to four or five ladies at once, 
and madly in love by turns with each of them. This 
sort of thing would not be quite agreeable in real life, 
but it is admissible in fiction and on the stage, and 
capable of being worked up into very entertaining 
complications. But the author of " Saratoga " is not 
capable of working it up. Starting out so bravely, 
with the aid of Professor De Mille, he is unable to 
walk a step alone. Having introduced his fickle and 
all-embracing hero, and taken him and his bevy of 
beauties to the fashionable watering-place, he can 
think of nothing better to carry on the action than a 
series of challenges to mortal combat, sent at the 
demands of the slighted belles, and given and taken in 
earnest. No duel is actually fought ; but upon the de- 
vice of the numerous challenges, the various degrees of 
cowardice and ingenuity disj^layed, and the confusion 
attending the meetings appointed, the interest of the 
last half of the play turns. 

A man writing for children would not introduce 
the duel as a feature of the American life of to-day, 
knowing that the outrage upon probability would be 
resented by readers who accept the coach of Cinder- 



156 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 

ella and the purse of Fortunatiis without a question. 
The incongruity is too glaring. The English tourist 
who listens for the Indian war-whoop on Broadway, 
and exj^ects to kill a buffalo on his journey up the 
Hudson, is not more at war with reason and common- 
sense. That an audience can listen to such things 
with forbearance and good-humor argues an extreme 
degree of patience on the part of the public; but that 
a play constructed of such stuff can win marked suc- 
cess indicates something more, which is worth a little 
searching. Such a phenomenon cannot exist without 
a cause. Yet the further we probe the play, the more 
we are struck with the opportunities which it over- 
looks, rather than with those which it improves. 
Where is a more promising mine for the dramatist 
than the Irish maid-servant of our day, as develoj)ed 
by American institutions, — a richer fund of humor, a 
better chance for real, honest fun ? Her Avit is fresh 
and charming, her blunders are delicious, her very 
ignorance is picturesque. There is an Irish nursery- 
maid in this play ; but she has no more drollery than 
the Turk who stands before a tobacco-shop, and in 
fact does nothing but cross the stage occasionally, 
and wail a monotonous lament over the frivolities 
of fashionable mothers, which might as appropriately 
come from the lips of a Greek chorus. The same 
chance is thrown away in dealing with the negro 
waiters of the watering-place hotels, — a class full of 
rare and grotesque characters admirably fitted for 
stage illustration, could the dramatist and the actor but 
study from the life instead of from the minstrel hall. 
And the same comment is called for all the way up 
the list of personages ; they are but the shadows of 
caricatures, and the skill of the best actors can do 
little towards giving them substance. As to the wit 



AN AMERICAN PLAY, — "SARATOGA." 157 

of the comedy, it consists mainly in making a man 
say over a dull thing so many times that the audience 
laughs at last, and in naming a character Muttonlegs, 
and then letting the others exasperate him by mis- 
calling him Muttonhead. Sentiment there is none, — 
or only a few A^apid lines of silliness, which compare 
with the emj^tiest dialogue of Robertson as Robertson 
with Shakespeare. The author has apparently shrunk 
from any attempt to gratify the i^ublic liking for 
honest, simple love-making, and has thrown in a little 
dirt instead, to meet another public taste more easily 
to be satisfied. 

And yet we feel bound to find an explanation for 
such success of this play as is imj^lied in people's 
crowding to see it by the thousand, and watching its 
progress with pleased countenances to the going down 
of the curtain. N^ot a few critics find in this indubi- 
table proof of the silliness and stupidity of the public, 
the lack of taste to detect the deficiencies of the drama 
and to appreciate anything better. But we prefer to 
see in it something more encouraging, in the earnest 
craving of the public for an American play rising 
above aU other considerations. *' Saratoga " is at least 
American ; it deals with a watering-place which every- 
body knows; its scenery faithfully dej^icts familiar 
localities ; its personages wear the dresses of Ameri- 
can men and women, and their conversation has no 
allusions unintelligible to hearers who know no life 
but our own. The gratification to be got by watching 
even so faint an imaging forth of American life, with 
its duelling in New York, and its belles who are no 
more like those of Saratoga, except in dress and com- 
plexion, than they are like the belles of Dahomey, is 
nothing like what would be produced by a comedy 
really reflecting our actual existence as " Money " or 



158 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 

" Caste " reflects England ; but the difference is only 
in degree. The people really want representations of 
our own manners and society on the stage ; failing to 
get any that are good, they take and enjoy the best 
they can get with such relish as they may, supplying 
its deficiencies fi'om their own imaginations, as Theseus 
advises his bride to do in the case of Manager Quince's 
company. 

Our inference therefore is that there is a demand, 
growing more and more urgent, for an American 
drama; and the demand ought to create a supj^ly. 
" Saratoga" and other similar productions which might 
be named have demonstrated that the drama will pay. 
We have no information as to the share of profits 
accorded to authors by our managers ; but if it be 
reckoned on such a basis as that adojDted in London 
or in Paris, the author of" Sai*atoga" should have had 
as profitable a winter as the most popular lecturer 
known to the lyceum bureau. And even sup230sing 
" Saratoga" to be a work of real sparkle and power 
instead of the inane trash it is, how much less the 
wear and tear of producing it than that of a long lec- 
ture tour! This is not an empire, and literature and 
the drama have to stand on their own legs, and will 
be none the worse for it in the end. But were we in 
the counsels of an empire striving to foster letters and 
to advance the higher phases of civilization here, we 
should seek to add to such temptation as is implied in 
the pecuniary rewards we have shown to be within 
reach, such further inducements of gain and glory as 
would set many pens at work on dramatic experi- 
ments. In that imaginary Utopia, the author of 
"The Potiphar Papers" and "Trumps," the author 
of "The Man without a Country," the author of 
" Oldtown Folks," the author of " My Summer in a 



AN AMERICAN PLAY, — "SARATOGA." 159 

Garden," the author of " Little Women," the author of 
" Suburban Sketches," the author of " The Outcasts of 
Poker FLat," ay, the Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table 
himself, and the creator of Hosea Biglo\r, should all 
do their best in such line of dramatic effort as suited 
their resj^ective tastes, — " tragedy, comedy, history, 
pastoral," and so following. They would not all succeed. 
Thackeray failed in a comedy, and Dickens made no 
success of any value with either comic opera or farce ; 
but Charles Reade has written almost as many good 
plays as good novels ; and " What mil He do with It? " 
is not a whit better or more likely to live to the next 
century than " Richelieu " or " The Lady of Lyons." 
So we need not go back to " She Stoops to Conquer" 
to jjrove that brilliancy in other literary walks is no 
bar to the best achievement with the tools of the 
stage. And with such a company as that we have 
suggested at work, witli as many more of almost equal 
rank who would be stimulated by their example, what 
a prize we might draw ! Who shall say that we have 
not among us some mute inglorious Sardou, some pos- 
sible Sheridan wasting his richness on the desert air 
of the comic column of a daily newspaper? The com- 
mittee on a National Hymn did not accomj^lish much, 
to be sure ; but that was in war-time, when deeds, not 
words, concerned us ; and it is not to be dogmatically 
assumed that a committee on an American Play might 
not do better, with a great, hungry, generous public 
behind them to distribute the medals. 



160 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 



THE LOVERS OP THE STAGE. 

"I frequently look in at the playhouse, in order to enlarge my 
thoughts, and warm my mind with some new ideas that may be ser- 
viceable to me in my habitations." — Addison, in "TAe Tatler.''^ 

"This is Ercles' vein, a tyrant's vein; a lover is more condoling." 

A Midsummer NigliVs Dream. 

Although love is the theme of three quarters of 
the plays, as it is of nine tenths of the romances, ever 
written, yet dramatists have generally been inclined 
to be very chary of actual love scenes on the stage. 
It has been deemed good policy to keep the tender 
passages, like the terrible crimes, out of sight of the 
audience. We are vouchsafed a word or two, and left 
to imagine the rest. Of Hamlet's love for Ophelia, of 
Othello's wooing, the audience knows only by hearsay. 
Putting that youthful production, " Romeo and Juliet," 
out of the question, there is hardly one of Shakespeare's 
plays which gives us more than a glimj^se of real, earn- 
est courtship. The witty fencing of Benedick and 
Beatrice, the stormy subjugation of Katharina by Pe- 
truchio, we have at length ; but we are left to fill out 
from our own imagination and experience how Loren- 
zo won Jessica, how sweet Anne Page bestowed her 
heart among her cluster of admirers. And it is per- 
haps because the exceptions to this general habit of 
Shakespeare do not shine among the brightest parts 
of his plays, that dramatists since his day have com- 
monly followed his example. Mock love-making, 
misunderstandings and complications and blunders in 
courtship, we have in plenty, from Marlowe besieging 
the imaginary barmaid, to Lady Gay leading Sir Har- 
court to his own discomfiture; but of such serious, 
fervid love-making as is the staple of novels, very 



THE LOVERS OF THE STAGE. 161 

little. Mr. Anthony Trollope has wiitten say thirty 
novels, with six j^roposals, three acceptances, and three 
refusals in each story, if ^ye may strike a rough aver- 
age. No two of them have been j^recisely alike, and 
all have furnished very pleasant reading. Thackeray 
never ignobly dodged a love scene, though he did the 
work always delicately and with few touches, as if he 
were dealing with something too holy for his pen. 
Dickens was not at his best in such chaj)ters ; but who 
can think of Ruth Pinch's beefsteak pudding, with 
John Westlock looking on, and say that any writer 
surpassed him ? Charles Reade has given us a host of 
pictures of all the j^hases of love ; but even he recog- 
nizes the difficulty of dealing with it on the stage, and 
his plays skijD over these parts of his novels very 
lightly. 

In fact, it seems almost impossible to deal with a 
pair of devoted lovers behind the footlights mthout 
being either too stiff or too soft. What unutterable 
bores are Falkland and his Julia in the midst of all 
the liveliness of " The Rivals " ! One can only ap- 
plaud Sheridan's own discernment of the fact as 
shown in his next great play by condensing the 
love-making of Charles Surface and Maria into two 
short lines. And, j^assing to a different sort of drama, 
what a mental nausea is that produced by the per- 
petual adoration offered to Marco, in "The Marble 
Heart," by the foolish sculptor whom every spectator 
feels an inclination to wake uj^ to reality with a stream 
from a garden hose ! 

One great exception will occur to the mind of every 
reader. While the modem public and modern play- 
wrights have seemed to agree in banishing sentiment 
from the stage, and in substituting for it such lurid 
passions as those of the twin heroines of sensational 



162 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 

literature, Lady Audley and Lady Isabel, one drama- 
tist has thriven by love-scenes of the simplest and 
pm-est sort. Mr. Thomas William Robertson was 
always happiest when he could get two young people 
under a tree in a thunder-storm, or chatting over a 
milk-pitcher in the moonlight ; and his audiences were 
happy also, if the j^layers who took the parts had the 
least sympathetic quality about their acting. But Mr. 
Robertson's success in this vein was unique, and not 
to be analyzed ; one may read the passages and find 
nothing in them whatever ; the fascination lay in a 
peculiar combination of stage business and skill in 
suggestion, with a certain refinement and delicacy, 
which no rival or successor will be likely to attain. 

When we leave the lovers of dramatic literature to 
come to the actors who have distinguished themselves 
in scenes depicting the universal passion, we have 
not in our own day a long list to go over. Garrick, if 
we may believe the traditions, was as irresistible in 
Romeo as he was powerful in Abel Drugger ; but usu- 
ally tragedians have outgrown the age to play the lov- 
er with thorough ardor before they have reached the 
experience to play anything with discretion. Mr. For- 
rest has long banished plays of juvenile sentiment from 
his list; and he was never the man to embody the 
softer passion as he did revenge and ambition and the 
like, though he pictures the tenderness of a fiither very 
beautifully in Yirginius and in Damon. Edwin Booth, 
though perhaps more young ladies have fallen harm- 
lessly in love with him across the footlights than with 
any other actor of this generation, shines chiefly in 
parts like Richelieu and Shylock, Hamlet, lago, Bru- 
tus, and others of a sombre cast. His love-making is 
fierce and fervid, almost gloomy, and with none of the 
roseate glow about it which should color Romeo's 



THE LOVERS OF THE STAGE. 163 

apostrophes. N"o scene of his of this kind so lingers 
in the memory as that of Richard with Lady Anne, 
where the 23assion so effectively displayed is simulated 
for a i^urpose, and the cruelty and hatred of the man 
gleams even through the suitor's appeal to the pretty 
■wddow to despatch him with his own sword if she can- 
not bid him hope. As to the actor most eminent in an- 
other school, Mr. Lester Wallack, a general knoAvledge 
of his manner leaves the impression ujjon the mind 
that the heroes he enacts are rather inclined to assume 
a dignified and graceful hauteur^ while the heroines fill 
in love with them, than to develop a great deal of sin- 
cere ardor of their own. And this leads to the general 
remark that the actors of lovers, being generally hand- 
some men, are somewhat disj^osed to rely on those 
charms which nature has given them rather than to 
exert such fascinations and to betray such depth of 
emotion as should mark the wooer. We have known 
more than one young man receiving a handsome 
salary from a theatre's treasury year after year on 
the strength of a straight nose, fine eyes, and a coal- 
black mustache. Now, it is not the handsome men 
who are the brilliant and unconquerable lovers of the 
world ; it is the ugly fellows like John Wilkes, who 
know that they cannot rely on their fices, yet who 
can boast with good ground that with half an 
hour's start they fear no comely rival. Perhaps there 
will be the beginning of a new era in dramatic art, 
when the Aj^othecary and Romeo change places, and 
the juvenile j^arts are no longer assigned with refer- 
ence to eyes and mustaches. 

To this branch of the subject, as to th6 other, there 
is one great exception, which must have occurred 
before this to the mind of every reader. It were 
impossible to speak of the lovers of the stage and to 



164 DEAMATIC TOPICS. 

leave out that prince of stage lovers, Mr. Fechter. 
What rhapsodies have been written over his Claude 
and Ruy Bias, chiefly by literary ladies, no catalogue 
can tell; and male critics have joined in the chorus, 
from Charles Dickens down to the last Western jour- 
nalist who has recognized his genius. It was as a 
lover that he first flashed into fame in Paris, in the 
most popular play of the younger Dumas ; and those 
who see him now in similar characters find it hard to 
believe that middle life has brought with it any dim- 
inution of the power he then possessed of portraying 
a passion as filling a man, saturating his whole exist- 
tence, leaving no room for any other thought, and 
making the diflerence between the presence and ab- 
sence of one woman a difference as wide as divides 
the equator and the pole. Mr. Fechter is to many the 
ideal lover; but to us there is now and then — not 
always — an earthiness about his manifestations of 
passion which suggests that there might be some- 
thing better in the range of the highest art. We do 
not care to go into this discussion in detail, however, 
but prefer to point out that one of the actor's happiest 
achievements in this sjoecial line is in a play which we 
believe he has yet given nowhere in America but in 
Boston, — "Black and White." It is a flimsy melo- 
drama enough ; but it gives great scope for the romantic 
acting of Mr. Fechter. In its first scene the hero, a 
young Frenchman of rank, wealth, education, of bril- 
liant and fascinating manners, who has never known a 
cloud to disturb the keen enjoyment of life which be- 
longs to fortunate youth, comes to the West Indies in 
quest of the heiress he has met in Paris, whom he 
loves and who loves him. Nothing can surpass the 
dash and sparkle with which the zest of the bright 
moment, the exhilaration of high spirits, the airy 



WILLIAM WARREN. 165 

audacity of the youngster, the passionate clevotion of 
the hopeful lover, are conveyed to the audience. 
Every face shines with a radiance reflected from his. 
It is but a moment or two before stern, melodramatic 
fate steps in, and the nobleman discovers that he is a 
slave and the son of a slave ; but the picture stands 
complete in itself, and it commands recognition as the 
masterly sketch of a great artist. 



WILLIAM WARREN. 

" One man in his time plays many parts." 

As You Like Tt. 

" Did he never make you laugh V " 

Much Ado About Nothing. 

It is the age of one-character actors. It is not the 
fault of the players so much as of the public ; but it is 
at any rate a fact which Ave cannot helj) recognizing. 
Miss Heron played Camille till the very sound of the 
name made her sick at heart ; but the public still de- 
manded Camille only at her hands, stayed coldly away 
when she produced new plays, and clamored for the 
frail heroine of Dumas with such persistency that it 
drove the actress from the stage at last. Who thinks 
of Maofsrie Mitchell but as Fanchon ? John Owens 
may introduce an engagement with one or two 
glimpses of old comedy or English farce, but the world 
knows and the actor knows he must presently fill 
back on Solon Shingle. Even a trasredian of such 
versatility as Edwin Booth studies a character and 
brings out a play for a whole winter's run, and New- 
Yorkers to-day know but a few sides of his power. 



166 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 

from this very habit. It is said that Joseph Jefferson 
is willing to hand over a fortune in hard cash to the 
writer who shall give him a new play in which he can 
make a hit coramensm-ate with his reputation ; but 
the play is not ready, and he goes on with Rip Van 
Winkle still. Miss Bateraan, Mr. J. S. Clarke, and 
Mr. Sothern are other instances of a class which we 
might go on multiplying indefinitely. For the cause 
we must go back to the star system, the inevitable 
tendency of which is to make all our actors players 
on a fiddle of a single string. 

Nevertheless, it seems to us the higher ideal is that 
of an actor of another sort, though Ave have to go 
outside the star system to secure him. The great 
sculptor does not rest content with reproducing copies 
of a single statue ; the great poet never ceases to cre- 
ate ; nobody ever set up Single-Speech Hamilton as an 
example of a great orator. The great actor who fills 
the conception in our mind's eye need not be equally 
great in " tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral- 
comical," and all the rest of the list; but he should 
in his line play many parts, and jolay them all well, 
making his genius tributary to many phases of life, 
and making many dramatists tributary to his genius; 
as Johnson said of Goldsmith in his Latin epitaph, he 
should " leave nothing untouched, and touch nothing 
which he did not adorn." And the American stage 
has no artist to whom this description so fully applies 
as to the gentleman whose name we have placed at 
the head of this paj^er. 

Mr. William Warren does not suffer in the slightest 
degree from being a Boston actor. Indeed, he is not 
a Boston actor in any limited sense of the words. His 
reputation is not local, but national. He was tempted 
into trying a stariiug tour half a dozen years ago, and 



WILLIAM WARKEN. 1G7 

the result proved, if proof were needed, that his fame 
extended all over the land, and that the people of all 
the cities were eager to flock to see him. But he gave 
up the experiment as foreign to his tastes and life- 
long habits, and returned to the quieter triumphs of 
the stage which had become as home to him ; and the 
familiar saying may be applied in a new phrasing : 
Since Mahomet will not go to the mountain, the moun- 
tain comes to Mahomet. Mr. Warren not only has 
the aj^preciative and affectionate Boston public, but 
admirers of good acting from all quarters make pil- 
grimages to Boston to see him, and the enjojinent of 
his genius is one of the most valued features of a 
visit to the city which possesses him. Thus, instead of 
lazily settling down into the performer of a little clus- 
ter of familiar parts, as he would be sure to do as a star, 
his powers are kept keen and fresh, and his creative 
faculty is never suffered to become dull. He takes as 
many new characters in a year as the youngest novice 
in the profession ; and in a stately Shakesjierian revi- 
val, in a crisp comedy by Sardou, in the most sensa- 
tional adaptation of Wilkie Collins, or the most deli- 
cate device of Robertson, this faithful artist is ever to 
be found doing his best for the author and the public, 
abnegating all thoughts of self, and thereby winning 
his highest glory. 

It is this very breadth and variety of Mr. Warren's 
genius and its development that makes it difficult to 
speak of him as he deserves in so brief an essay as we 
are permitted to devote to him. The lover of art 
who is familiar with his multitude of j)ersonations — 
as all lovers of art are who have the opportunity to 
enjoy them — sees him in ever so slight a part, and in 
his very presence on the stage feels the charm of a 
host of past triumphs of acting. It is something as 



168 DEAMATIC TOPICS. 

the scliolar stands half in revery before his book- 
shelves, and luxuriates, in mere reading of the gilded 
titles, in the diverse excellencies of Boswell and Elia, 
of " The Tempest " and " The Scarlet Letter," of 
Mrs. Poyser and Hosea Biglow. We do not think 
of William Warren as Dr. Pangloss or Tony Lumpkin 
or Sir Harcourt Courtly ; but we detect the aroma of 
all those delicious pieces of acting when he comes 
upon the stage in the most trivial part, or as we hear 
his voice behind the scenes before he enters. 

We cannot go into minute analysis of the elements 
of this great comedian's skill. Were we called upon 
to name the foremost attributes of his power, we 
should select his forbearance, his dignity, the delicacy 
of his humor, the sympathy and magnetism of his 
pathos, and above all the faithfulness to detail and to 
duty which mark all he does. Never does he take 
advantage of his fame or of the fondness of his 
audience to put himself forward when some necessary 
question of the play is to be considered ; yet never 
does he lapse into tameness or inattention, though he 
be lost in the background or hidden in a multitude. 
No minor actor ever need complain that an ojipor- 
tunity of his own was sacrificed to one of Mr. War- 
ren's points ; no author could ever claim that a part 
or a plot was marred by anything lacking or anything 
overdone on his part. To pass for a moment into 
detail in illustration of some of the qualities we have 
noted : Sir Peter Teazle is a comic character, but 
there is a mornent of pure tragedy in it when the 
testy, noble old gentleman discovers his wife hidden 
behind the screen in the library of Joseph Surface; 
how grandly Mr. Warren interprets the depth of 
emotion in the soul which is stirred at that instant ! 
There never was a keener appreciation of humor than 



WILLIAM WARREN. 169 

belongs to Mr. Warren ; but Sir Harcourt Courtly is 
not a humorous man ; and it is worth long and 
repeated study to see how seriously he goes through 
the i:)lay in that part, how far he is from aj^parent con- 
sciousness of any of the fun going on about him, how 
saturated with the supreme consciousness of his own 
sujDeriority which belongs to the character. There 
have been very few actors who could impart so much 
meaning to one or two words, — and this with never 
an indulgence in exaggeration for effect, with the 
severest and driest of simplicity. In the first scene of 
Sardou's comedy of " Fernande," one of the lady fre- 
quenters of a gay gaming-house in Paris, comment- 
ing upon the scandalous behavior of an acquaintance, 
remarks parenthetically, " Il^ow, I don't set up for a 
prude." " Certainly not," says the courteous advocate 
to whom she is speaking. It is the slightest thing in 
the world, — a parenthesis within a parenthesis ; but 
in the utterance of those two words there is a gleam 
of genius as brilliant, but as indescribable, as a flash of 
heat-lightning. Take again, as a concluding example, 
Mr. Warren's performance of Jesse Rural in " Old 
Heads and Young Hearts " ; how admirable, yet how 
free from any suspicion of grotesqueness, is the make- 
up, from the innocent, round, venerable face with its 
halo of thin white hair, to the threadbare elbow of 
the country minister's coat-sleeve ; how touching, how 
unforced, is the simplicity of his bearing and conduct ; 
how the voice ripples and trembles with the emotion 
which comes alike from a gentle heart and a pulpit 
training ; how modestly the actor refrains from press- 
ing himself upon the attention while the tangled 
threads of the too ingenious plot are woven together; 
how far beyond praise is the transition of the final 
situation from merriment through hysterical laughter 
8 



170 DEAMATIC TOPICS. 

to tears; and with what matchless and impressive 
dignity, — a model for the thousand commonplace 
ministers of actual life, — is uttered the concluding 
address of the old clergyman to the audience ! 

Eulogy is not our trade. We aim ever, in these 
sketches, to give a discriminative view of the leading 
characteristics of the subjects we discuss. But in 
treating a genius like Mr. Warren's, so delicate, so 
brilHant, so true, combined with such artistic con- 
science, such freedom from conceit, such a respect for 
itself, forbidding ignoble artifice to heighten its attrac- 
tion, we care not to repress the enthusiasm with which 
our tribute finds words. 



THE MENAGERIE. 

Ax imposing procession through the streets, led by 
elephants in harness, yesterday morning, informed 
that class of jjeople who do not read the papers that 
the menagerie had arrived. Good little boys teased 
their papas to take them, and good papas took their 
little boys and girls without asking, so that a goodly 
current of family parties streamed along Harrison 
Avenue and Newton Street at the appointed hour, 
passed the side-show tents with their blatant bands 
and flaring banners, and poured in at the narrow 
entrance of the big j)aviUon. The crowd was not so 
large perhaps as it would have been but for our obsti- 
nate and most un-June-like weather, which has been 
talked about with increasing emiDhasis these ten days, 
but still returns raining for railing. The stout canvas 
shed the drops, however, so that it was quite dry and 



THE MENAGERIE. 171 

comfortable inside the tent, and there was no alloy to 
the enjoyment of the strange sights afforded by the 
semicircle of cages on wheels. There was the sacred 
bull with his mysterious hump, his dignified and serene 
bearing, and his delicately tinted hide. There were 
leojDards elegantly spotted and edifyingly tame, and a 
panther a little more wild and so much more inter- 
esting. There was a polar bear, who had a poorer 
opinion of the weather than the most inveterate of 
our native grumblers, and who continually swung his 
head from side to side in a way i^ainfully suggestive 
of extreme discontent with his small quarters. There 
was a rather stupid but very handsome pair of 
lions ; but the lions of the day were decidedly the ba- 
bies of this family, which were exceedingly pretty, and 
were handed out of the cage now and then to be fon- 
dled by the ladies in passing, according to the 
promise of the advertisements. Farther on were the 
dromedaries and camels, the most contented in apj^ear- 
ance of all the animals ; and the two elephants, so 
marvellously greedy for cookies and confectionery as 
to suggest a suspicion that they were in league with 
the dealers who sold those articles at stands near by, 
and who were patronized chiefly by children, eager to 
propitiate the elephants, and interested in their odd 
method of feeding themseh^es. Then, at the end of 
the row was the other unique feature of the collection, 
the rhinoceros, — an unwieldy, thick-hided brute, in a 
cage, his horn sawed off close to prevent his smashing 
his i^rison-house to pieces. Scattered among these 
were hyenas, llamas, a zebra, monkeys, and several of 
the other animals catalogued with j^rofusion and some- 
what ingenious iteration in the advertisements, — in 
fine, a very good collection of its kind, the pleasanter 
to look upon that all the creatures seemed well and 



172 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 

cleanly cared for. There were so many children in 
the crowd of lookers-on that it seemed quite like an 
illustrated lesson in natural history; and those who 
had taken their lessons years ago could not but be 
edified by the pretty sights outside the rope, the 
wondering eyes, the little screams of fear, the naive 
remarks, the exclamations of amazement to be en- 
countered on every side. Presently the shirt-sleeved 
orchestra struck up a brisker air than ever ; and there 
flashed into the ring the approved cavalcade of gentle- 
men and ladies in Sj^anish costumes, while the tardy 
comers hurried to the amphitheatre of hard, narrow 
seats. There followed the same familiar circus pro- 
gramme which came into A^ogue soon after the days of 
the Roman emperors, and has known no change, no 
novelty of invention, for generations past, — all the 
acts being very well done in their way. The element 
of novelty, indeed, came in, in the unusual corpulence 
of one of the clowns, and the rare sacrifice of the tra- 
ditional dignity of the ring-master, who seemed to 
snap his whip rather tamely at the outset, and whose 
lack of spirits was explained when it appeared that his 
duties required him to mount a stool, top-boots and 
all, and hold a banner for the bold rider, and when 
shortly after he himself came out in tights to give a 
performance of tossing cannon-balls. The managers 
of this exhibition have much to answer for in thus 
degrading an office which to youthful minds has long 
appeared the very ideal of authority and lofty gran- 
deur. The usual very dull trade in fans, lemonade, 
prize candy, clowns' song-books, side-show tickets, 
photographs, and similar wares, was carried on by 
young men of remarkable self-poise and confidence of 
manner, who might have been born and bred under 
the canvas, so thoroughly harmonized did their bear- 



THE MENAGERIE. 173 

ing seem with the atmosphere of the place. The jests 
of the clowns were of com-se very broad, and of a 
character to seem very funny to people to Avhom the 
richest humor of Charles Dickens is dry and tasteless ; 
but it is only justice to say that there was nothing to 
offend on the score of proj^riety, and nothing in the 
whole entertainment to prevent the most j^articular 
papa or the most fastidious mamma from taking their 
children to receive the practical instruction of the 
cages, and to enjoy the wild sensation of delight which 
marks a first acquaintance with the feats of the arena. 



III. 



ESSAYS AND SKETCHES 



ON POLITICAL TOPICS. 



POLITICAL TOPICS. 



PRIMARY MEETINGS. 

WITH the close of the session of Congress, and 
the promise of cooler weather implied in the 
advent of the last month of summer, the actual ^\'ork 
of the political campaign in the country at large fairly 
begins. The noisier portion of that work — the flag- 
raisings and torchlight processions, barbecues and 
stump speeches — may be expected in its full vigor 
a little later in the season. But a not less essential 
part of it, a part of the task of the utmost importance 
in its bearings and results, already claims the attention 
of the good citizen ; and it is to be hoj^ed that es- 
pecial care may be taken this year that it may not be 
neglected until it is too late for more than futile re- 
grets and unavailing reproaches at the opportunities 
so easily lost. We refer to the j^reliminary work of 
caucuses and j^rimary meetings preceding the party 
nominations to the various places within the gift of the 
people at the November election. It is in the little 
gatherings of the peojDle, during the next few weeks, 
in the ward-rooms and. school-houses, that the char- 
acter of the government is decided. It is in these party 
assemblies that claims and counterclaims are canvassed, 
and the men are selected who are to rej^resent the 
people in the issues of the future. In the heat and 

8* L 



178 POLITICAL TOPICS. 

excitement of the presidential year these minor posi- 
tions are more than ever apt to be overlooked by 
the people, and left to the machinations of schemers, 
and to become the prey of ambitions men who use 
the voters of their constituencies but as a stepping- 
stone for their own selfish uses. When the nomina- 
tion in the thinly attended and easily managed caucus 
or convention is once effected, it is commonly too late 
to repine at its results ; and the sole remedy left, of 
bolting or scratching the regular ticket is so full 
of peril to the interests of the country at large that it 
is only jDroperly to be resorted to in extreme cases, 
where a rebuke of a charlatan at the hands of the 
men upon whose votes he has been trading becomes 
a duty, and the lesson derived from his downfall is 
worth all it costs. But the present is the time most 
effectually to provide against the possibility of such 
mishaps. Especial caution needs to be had in the 
matter of the congressional nominations in the various 
districts. The men who are to be chosen now will 
represent the State during the first half of the presi- 
dential term of General Grant. The qualifications, 
the characteristics, the antecedents of every man as- 
j^iring to an election should be scanned with a view 
to the duties likely to devolve upon him in that period. 
New questions will undoubtedly arise, in carrying out 
to the end the reorganization of the Southern com- 
munities, in settling the financial points which already 
assume a shape demanding the clearest wisdom and 
the highest integrity, and in a score of subjects now 
hardly spoken of. The prosperity and happiness of 
the nation will in a great measure depend upon the 
manner in which these contingencies are provided for 
now, whether the servants of the people at Washing- 
ton shall be in accord in the different departments of 



PRIMARY MEETINGS. 179 

the government, in accord with the sober juclgment 
of the people themselves, in accord with the immuta- 
ble theories of right, honesty, and justice; or whether 
they are men of overweening personal Avilfulness, 
likely to be in contest with the executive and with 
each other, full of jealousies, animosities, and ambi- 
tions with which the people have nothing to do, and 
identified with ideas which the mass of the j^eople 
whom they profess to represent regard with scorn 
and disgust. In a word, everything depends upon 
whether or not they are men in whom the peoj^le can 
implicitly trust, not only in the controversies of the 
past, but in issues only just rising above the horizon, 
and in possible emergencies of the future yet unseen. 
To insure the decision of these questions in such a 
way as to give occasion to no discontent hereafter, it 
is not enough that every individual should give an as- 
sent to these abstract projoositions. Every voter in 
every district should form an opinion in his own mind, 
after the most careful reflection, as to the best man 
to represent the district in the councils of the nation. 
But, merely formed and left to slumber, this opinion 
will do no good. He should see to it in every way 
that his opinion has its full weight in the primary 
meetings in which alone it can be of value, and do his 
utmost to impress it upon those who have to register 
the consolidated opinion of the district. When the 
individual voter sees to it that his opinion has expres- 
sion in the preliminary channels which we have in- 
dicated, there is little danger that the verdict of all 
the voters in the a2:o;re2;ate will be one in which he 
cannot readily acquiesce. The danger of republican 
institutions is, not in the largest action of the intel- 
ligent masses, but in the sloth and indifierence which 
makes them mere instruments in the hands of politi- 



180 POLITICAL TOPICS. 

cians and wire-pullers. Let every man see to it, not 
only that his vote tells at the polls, but that his in- 
fluence is felt in making up the ballot there put into 
his hands, and the country will make as great a step 
forward in the composition of a Republican congress 
as it will accomplish in the triumph of Grant, peace, 
and honesty over Seymour, revolution, and swindling. 



THE PUOTSHMENT OF JEFFERSON DAVIS. 

The announcement of the sailing of Jefferson Davis 
for this country is a reminder of the rapidity with 
which the world moves. It is only twelve years since 
Mr. Davis was the ablest adviser of a powerful Demo- 
cratic administration of the national government. It 
is only eight years since he withdrew from the Senate 
to become President of the Southern Confederacy. It 
is a considerable less time since Mr. Gladstone de- 
clared that he had " founded an empire." Five years 
ago he sat confident in Richmond, whence army after 
army had been hurled back, defeated by his troops, 
and the world listened respectfully to his words of 
pride and defiance. It is only a little more than four 
years since the whole nation was filled with laughter 
over the ludicrous circumstances of his capture. With- 
in three years people were looking forward eagerly to 
his trial, reckoning upon the example which was to be 
held up to awe treasonable thoughts for ages to come, 
and debating the most proper punishment for his 
enormous crimes. Doubtless to the worn old man 
himself, as he paces the deck of the ship which brings 
him back, all these reminiscences seem near and fa- 



THE PUNISHMENT OF JEFFERSON DAVIS. 181 

miliar ; but to the jDublic they are as memories of a 
bygone era, and his landing will attract less attention 
than the arrival of a sinewy youngster who has been 
beaten in a boat-race on the Thames, or the advent 
of the last prima donna. 

It may be doubted whether this swift and complete 
insignificance is not a better punishment for the 
leader of the Confederacy than the sharpest vengeance 
which could have been devised. ISTo ignominious 
death, no painful imprisonment, no forced exile, could 
be more bitter to him than the tolerant contempt 
which has so quickly followed his downfall. For, 
whatever may have been the inspiring motive of 
others of the creators of the Confederacy, Jefferson 
Davis was actuated by ambition. He had plotted 
rebellion for years as the instrument of his own per- 
sonal elevation to a loftier height than the existing 
political fabric gave room for. He saw a richer emj^ire 
than Napoleon's within reach of his hand. If he 
could look back to his failure now from some guarded 
St. Helena, he could moralize with dignity upon the 
causes of his defeat. But to come and go without 
exciting a glance from friend or enemy, to wander 
about the earth seeking his livelihood, with the con- 
sciousness of his obscurity ever present to his mind, 
must gall him as no chains could do. Our own 
history shows an apt parallel to his case in the last 
years of Aaron Burr ; and, like Burr, he must contin- 
ually be confronted with reminders of his offences 
against his country and against humanity. " Tell the 
gentleman," said Talleyrand, " that I will receive him 
at any time; but the portrait of Colonel Hamilton 
always hangs over my mantel-piece." The passenger 
from Liverpool may go where he lists, but the facts 
of Grant in the White House, the negro at the ballot- 



182 POLITICAL TOPICS. 

box, tlie South desolated and impoverished, hundreds 
of acres of graves and thousands of crijjples all over 
the land, will meet him at every stej^ all the more 
pointedly that nobody will think it worth while to 
throw them in his face. 



MR. SPRAGUE AND HIS ORATORY. 

It can no longer be said that the smallest of the 
States occupies an insignificant position in national 
politics. The Senate has chosen one of its Rhode 
Island members to the highest position within its gift, 
and the other has contrived to make himself the most 
talked-about man in the country, and at least a nine 
days' wonder. Unlike the nobleman who awoke one 
morning and found himself famous, Mr. Sprague seems 
to have walked into the Senate Chamber one day, 
after six years of modest obscurity, firmly resolved to 
make himself notorious. Unlike the animal in sacred 
history which immortalized itself by speaking once 
wisely and opportunely, and holding its peace there- 
after, Mr. Sprague has continued to air his new-found 
gift in season and out of season, until he bids fair 
to make himself a byword. His first amazing and 
amusing speech, ten days ago, came upon the Senate, 
Rhode Island, and the country like a clap of thunder 
from a clear sky. But, with rare lack of judgment, 
the Senator has cheapened his thunder, until it rings 
upon the ear as tamely as the reverberations of the 
sheet-iron of the priest Calchas ; and we look for 
the news that the unquenchable little gentleman from 
Rhode Island has favored the Senate with a page of 



MR. SPRAGUE AND HIS ORATORY. 183 

Macaulay, a chapter of autobiograi)hy, a wail of woe, 
and a dash of defiance, as a regular seasoning to our 
breakfasts. 

The ferocity of the orator has increased as the nov- 
elty of his effusion has waned. No friend or neighbor 
has been safe from the slash of his broadsword. His 
career has resembled nothing so much as that of a 
Malay in that singular demonstration of national 
fi-enzy which is called " running amuck." The genial 
and unpretending Senator from Nevada ventured to 
analyze the torrent of accusations in a good-humored 
vein of raillery, only to find himself impaled with a 
savage epithet as " the charlatan of the Senate." Mr. 
Sumner looked smilingly, perhaps, on the surprising dis- 
play, — for he certainly said nothing ; and straightway 
the world was scornfully informed that Mr. Sprague 
had once been called on to contribute money and in- 
fluence to aid the Massachusetts gentleman's election. 
The occupants of the galleries on one day laughed at 
Mr. Nye's jests ; and their successors a week later were 
accused of ignorance, of extravagant dress, and of 
various other offences. The "Providence Journal" 
endeavored to give a kind explanation of the Sena- 
tor's folly ; and promptly Mr. Sprague turned his guns 
of wrath upon his colleague. Mr. Wilson undertook 
gently to urge that his friend's view of the depravity 
and corruption of the community took some dark 
hues from his imagination ; and at once we have the 
scathing retort that our Senator does not move in 
society sufficiently elevated to enable him to judge 
with that accuracy which Mr. Sprague claims for him- 
self. It is necessary, we are led to infer, to have an 
alliance by marriage with the head of the judiciary, 
and to count cotton-mills by scores, workmen by 
thousands, and money by millions, to understand the 



184 POLITICAL TOPICS. 

profligacy and manifold wickedness of which the Amer- 
ican j^eojole of to-day are capable. It is almost impos- 
sible to treat these extraordinary outbreaks of Mr. 
Sprague's seriously. The first seemed like the esca- 
pade of an hour, the fruit of a bottle of wine too much, 
or a dinner badly digested. But now they have been 
prolonged so far that attention cannot be withheld. 
The problem which they present is not one of easy 
solution, and to the foreign student of our affairs will 
seem utterly inexplicable. Here is a man of mature 
years, high position, and some training in jDublic life, 
moving, as he is pleased to boast, in the best society 
which a republic like ours joroduces, who, suddenly, 
and uj^on no special occasion, shouts forth from his 
pedestal a lamentation more mournful than that of 
Jeremiah. His complaints are curiously incongruous : 
The country is on the verge of ruin. There are too 
many lawyers in the Senate. The private morals of 
the people are corru23t. No husband dare turn his 
back upon his wife. The reign of terror which exists 
is due to a party whose every measure for the past 
six years, wise and otherwise, has received the Sena- 
tor's vote. The manufacturers of New England will 
soon have to stop their spindles because they are los- 
ing money. The firm of which the Senator is a mem- 
ber, to be sure, is coining wealth, but it is only by 
crushing out its competitors. Ignorance of financial 
affairs shows itself in the Senate. Worst of all, the 
President proposes to protect, and eventually to pay, 
the national debt. The world is hollow; my doll is 
stuffed with sawdust; and, if you please, I will go 
into a convent. 

If it is impossible to account for all this except upon a 
hypothesis which politeness to the well-meaning Sena- 
tor from Rhode Island forbids us to suggest, the inci- 



MR. SPRAGUE AND HIS ORATORY. 185 

dent may perhaps be useful to point a moral which 
closes so many sermons on the vanity of human 
wishes. If one were to search the country through 
for a man who should fill the common ideal of all the 
requisites of happiness and content, there could hardly 
be found a more striking illustration than a gentleman 
who, with youth, has the political honors usually 
reached only in age ; who possesses gi-eat wealth, and 
yet is fi'eed from temptation to indolence by the calls 
of a vast business which gives a livelihood to thou- 
sands; who has the key to every circle of society; 
who can look back upon an honorable record in the 
day of national triaL The novelist could not invent 
a situation seemingly so blessed. Yet no one can look 
into the pages of the " Globe " for the last few days 
without having it put before him that the possessor 
of all these things is the most wretched of men. Dis- 
appointment and discontent show themselves in every 
paragraph he utters. His hand is against every man. 
Having exhausted the tamer pleasures of the world, 
he courts the luxury of a conspicuous martyrdom like 
that of Simeon Stylites. Like Samson, he would jduII 
down the edifice of his party organization upon his 
own head. Happily for the nation, the Senator from 
Rhode Island, though he has Samson's blindness, and 
wields one of Samson's most effective weapons, has 
not Samson's strength. The fabric will stand in spite 
of him; and there is yet time for such a measure of 
wisdom to come with age that he may laugh with his 
children over the fantastic tricks of his youth in the 
Senate. 



186 POLITICAL TOPICS. 



MR. ADAMS'S LETTER. 

Mr. John Quincy Adams steps upon the Demo- 
cratic platform gingerly, and with manifest repug- 
nance. He finds it necessary to take exception to so 
many of its planks that the framework which remains 
under his feet has hardly the solidity of a skeleton. 
He expressly disclaims the financial theories which his 
party has espoused. But he comforts himself with 
the thought that the issue involved in this question 
of national honesty or national swindling is only " im- 
portant"; while the other subjects involved in the 
campaign are so "vital" as to overshadow and dwarf 
any such trifling matters as the danger of repudiation 
and bankruptcy. Following his remarkable letter of 
acceptance a little further, however, we find that he 
is compelled yet again to step aside from the path 
marked out by the leaders of his party. " The Demo- 
cratic party in success," he says, "may subvert the 
organic law." In fact, by its jplatform and its nomi- 
nation for the vice-presidency, it has pledged itself to 
defy all law, and enter upon a new revolution. Mr. 
Adams is only able to intimate that whatever is done 
will be due to the corrupting influences of the dread- 
ful Radicals on the Democratic reverence for the Con- 
stitution. "We may dread^'' he continues, with af- 
fecting italics, "lest the Democrats should do this 
thing ; but we do certainly Jcnow that the Republican 
party has already done it." He sees " at least a 
chance, a last chance, of salvation," in the possibil- 
ity that Semmes and Cobb and Vallandigham and 
Seymour may yet retain a reverence for the Constitu- 
tion, unimpaired by the horrid example of Grant and 
Colfax and Fessenden and the rest, in treading it un- 
der foot. 



ME. ADAMS'S LETTER. 187 

Then Mr. Adams, having thrown behind him nine 
tenths of the distinctive principles upon which the 
Democratic party is making the campaign, having re- 
pudiated its repudiation and cast off its Blair pro- 
gramme, finds scope for his powers by going in, like 
the sick man in the story, " with a vengeance on that 
one chance." He finds himself at ease again in the 
policy of attack. He repeats all the stereotyped de- 
nunciations of the Republican party. He talks non- 
sense, of which a man like him should be ashamed, 
about the bugbear of " negro domination." He pre- 
tends that the white leaders of the South would have 
been willing to secure the negro in his civil rights, 
and give him political jDrivileges " as he grew fit to 
use them wisely," if Ave had extended to them what 
he in remarkable rhetoric calls "the right hand of 
oblivion of the jDast and reconciliation in the future." 
He has the assurance to say that the Republican party 
makes a^^proval of impeachment a test of party fel- 
lowship, when impeachment was defeated, and the 
President remains in office, solely by the votes of men 
among the most eminent and trusted of Republican 
leaders, and among the most active in support of the 
Republican ticket. He goes beyond the land of the 
living to quote from that favorite Democratic text- 
book the words which irresponsible rumor assigns to 
Thaddeus Stevens. He even remembers the local 
question of the liquor laws, and professes to " sup- 
pose " that a re-enactment of the old statute will be a 
result of the success of the party which has pointedly 
abstained fi*om allying itself with the friends of the 
rejected prohibitory policy. 

It is impossible to read such a letter as that of Mr. 
Adams without perceiving the difficulty with which 
he brings himself to the task of ratifying his alliance 



188 POLITICAL TOPICS. 

with a party controlled by the counsels which pre- 
vailed in the New York Convention. His difficulty 
is that of thousands of other men who have not the 
inducements that stimulate him to surmount it. Prom- 
inent in the public eye, a candidate at the head of the 
State ticket, the task of returning to the fold of a 
party which, with all its mistakes, now stands for 
honesty, for nationality, for justice, and for peace, in 
opposition to fraud, to rebellion, to oppression, and to 
anarchy, was a far greater one for him than for the 
private voter, who has but to look at the field through 
no spectacles of selfish regard for consistency. But 
both aid in their several ways the cause of the Re- 
publican party, — the one through the simple vote for 
Grant, and the other by the singular mixture of apol- 
ogy and argument with which he adheres to the 
standard of Seymour. 



IV. 



LETTERS. 



LETTERS 

FROM A WANDERmG CORRESPONDENT. 



INLAND JOURNEYINGS. 

The Pleasures of Carriage Tours. — Their Increasing Popularity. — 
The Lions of Barre. — The Rocking Stone and its History. — A Cen- 
tenarian and his Son. — Cheese Factories. 

Barre, September 11, 1867. 

AFTER "Berwick" and "Munroe" and "Pres- 
cott " and "Blotter " and the rest have furnished, 
in their various vacation-letters,' almost a comi^lete 
guide-book to the regions convenient for summer tour- 
ists from Boston, it might seem impossible for another 
con-espondent of your joaper to write of summer travel- 
ling without trespassing upon their preempted territory. 
But I remember, in the "Daily Advertiser" of last sum- 
mer, a series of very chainning articles extolling the neg- 
lected advantages of a kind of travel which went out 
when railroads came in, but which presents joys and 
comforts that those who use the railroad routes, and 
only stop at the railroad stations, know nothing of. 
These essays set forth the delights of wandering about 
the rural districts in family parties, with a horse or two 
as the motive power, and the charms of the consequent 
independence of action, the discovery of pleasant 
scenes and notable things unknown to the swift- 
going public, the acquaintance with rustic inns, and 
so forth. One paper was devoted to each of the New 



192 LETTERS. 

England States, and enumerated a few of the natural 
attractions and historic spots of each, which all but 
the sensible few have forgotten. Remembering the 
theories set forth in these essays, I say, it occurs to 
me that even the multitude of your correspondents 
following the beaten tracks of travel may not have 
exhausted the capabilities of the land, and that your 
readers may welcome an epistle or two with no loftier 
aim than to catalogue some of the experiences of 
wanderings far away from the sound of the locomotive 
whistle or the puffing of the steamboat, — exjDeriences 
unique in themselves, perhaps, but to be paralleled by 
others quite as notable in every town or cluster of 
towns in our incomparable New England. 

And since I have indulged myself already in so long 
a preface, I will add by way of introduction that the 
mode of travel thus recommended by the Daily last 
year is certainly growing in favor. I presume there is 
no visible falling off in the crowds that go the regular 
rounds, and get rid of their greenbacks at the White 
Mountains and Lake George, and their unfamiliar 
silver at Montreal and Quebec. But there is certainly 
an increase in the number of the stragglers who have 
abandoned routine, and seek pleasure in buggies be- 
hind horses in whom bottom and steadiness are more 
requisite than speed ; with one suit each for the trip, one 
valise to hold all the necessaries of the toilet, — along 
the country roads where Nature is most easily wooed. 
This is a natural halting-place for these sensible pil- 
grims ; and there is hardly a day that I do not see 
several parties of this kind, composed either of one 
couple, one couple and a baby, or two couj^les, with 
a span quite as often as a single horse, di'iving up to 
the Massasoit House here for a dinner or a lodging, 
and bound, perhaps for Wachusett or Monadnock, 



INLAND JOURNEYINGS. 193 

perhaps for a ride through the Connecticut "Valley, 
or perhaps for a taste of the Coldbrook Springs, of 
which I wrote you some time ago. 

Doubtless, were these tourists to ask some staid cit- 
izen who has spent a lifetime here what attractions 
Barre holds out to induce a day's pause in a ride 
whose chief charm is the freedom w^hich it gives for 
such pauses, he would think it little worth mentioning. 
Custom brings blindness in such matters. But those 
whose experience dates no firther back than a single 
summer's absence from the city are better authorities, 
and can tell of numberless delicious drives through 
roads all thick with grass, and shaded by an arch of 
foliage uninterrupted for a mile ; of points command- 
ing views of pond and forest and village and distant 
mountain, worthy of any painter in your studios ; of 
a glen with precipitous sides, mysterious caves, and a 
cascade falling more than a hundred feet over rocky 
stairs at the bottom of the ravine, — just the place for 
Indian legends and picnics; and so on of many things 
which can be appreciated better by those who see 
them than by those who can only read of them in 
print. But we have more, special and peculiar lions 
than these, worthy of a stranger's notice, and, so far 
as I know, never yet celebrated in type for the infor- 
mation of dwellers afar off. 

In the northern part of this town of Barre is a 
natural curiosity of the first order, mentioned, perhaps, 
in some forgotten old books of New England antiqui- 
ties, and called indiscriminately Cradle Rock and 
Rocking Stone, in common parlance and on the local 
maps. It is certainly entitled to the former name ; 
perched on a high ledge which lifts it above the neigh- 
boring trees, passengers along more than one of the 
roads in the vicinity may note its close resemblance 
9 M 



194 LETTERS. 

to a cradle, — a cradle, too, of the old-fashioned sort, 
which may be supposed to date back to the time of 
Noah, since which this gigantic model has stood here 
to be wondered at by succeeding generations. 

One rock forms the body of the cradle, and uj^on 
one end of this, high up out of human reach, is balanced 
the other lesser rock which supplies the top of the 
cradle. How the huge mass got up so high, and why 
it was left there, is a question which must remain 
unanswered, unless Professor Agassiz, provoked by 
my unscientific description, comes up here and solves 
the problem by a glacial explanation. I have never 
visited the rock with a tape-measure, and cannot give 
you its dimensions with any pretence to accuracy; but 
it is a prodigious mass of granite, and by its singular 
formation quite awe-inspiring to the beholder who 
looks up at it from the base. Tradition says that it 
used to deserve literally its popular title of rocking- 
stone, being swayed by the wind or the hand in a 
gentle motion such as might have rocked some giant 
antediluvian to sleep ; but that certain Puritan Yan- 
dals, thinking anything which could rock might be 
tipped over, and bent, perhaps, on destroying what 
might be a witness to some infidel scientific theory of 
creation, hitched all the oxen in town to the stone, 
and urged them with goad and shout to pull it over. 
The grim old phenomenon resisted all their hauling 
and prying ; but, possibly in grief at their irreverence, 
has never rocked since. 

It is natural to turn from this old landmark, on 
whose sides a dozen centuries leave hardly a trace of 
increased age, to another venerable object of more 
immediate human interest but a few miles away. In 
a pleasant farm-house in another part of Barre lives a 
gentleman born when Samuel Johnson was editing 



INLAND JOUKNEYINGS. 195 

Shakespeare, when Joseph Warren was studjdng medi- 
cine, before James Otis was prominent in public life, 
before George Washington had married the Widow 
Custis, fom'teen years before the Declaration of Inde- 
pendence, — whose one-himdred-and-fifth birthday oc- 
curs this very week. Since Mr. PijDer became Avhat 
Mrs. Partington would call a centurion, his house has 
been visited every summer by scores of the visitors 
here and at the neighboring watering-place of Cold- 
brook, all cordially welcomed ; and he has been for- 
mally recognized as one of the lions of the place, and 
introduced to innumerable people from far and near ; 
so I may be j^ardoned for what would otherwise seem 
an intrusion into private life in referring to him here. 
His hair is, of course, thin and snow-white, and his 
beard, long and flowing in some of his photographs, 
has been abbreviated and thinned out by the scissors 
of ladies, to whom the old gentleman never refuses 
the coveted keepsake. His cheek has still a ruddi- 
ness retained from the far, far distant youth, and 
his countenance does not show more marks of age 
than may be seen in some men of not much more than 
half his years. He has kept his bed of late, however, 
being comfortably arranged by a quaint invention of 
his son, so that on the turning of a crank he is brought 
up into a sitting posture to receive the visitors whose 
reception is now the only occupation of his life. His 
hearing and sight are good, or were when I last saw 
him, and he talks pleasantly with those who take his 
hand of acquaintance with their grandfathers, who 
were born very likely after he himself was a grand- 
father. I think Mr. Piper was a seaman during the 
Revolution; and I believe no older survivor than 
he yet lives in New England. His birthday, since he 
turned the great corner of the three figures which so 



196 LETTERS. 

few can reach, has been a festival to be celebrated by 
a large and constantly increasing circle of his descend- 
ants. Four generations live here in his house and the 
one opposite; and others of his posterity are scattered 
far and wide over the earth. 

But the moments, in which something of solemnity 
inevitably mingles, spent in this old gentleman's room, 
do not include all the interest which is conveyed to 
the residents of this vicinity by the mention of " going 
to Mr. Piper's." The son of the venerable relic of the 
eighteenth century, whose seventy-odd years seem like 
yonth beside his father's life, is a man of exceeding 
ingenuity, for whom the jack-knife has possibilities 
unknown to the great multitude of whittling Yankee 
boyhood. The leisure of the farmer's winter evenings 
has enabled him to produce something more than 
the wooden chain which is the standard wonder of the 
country cattle-show; and his broad parlor displays 
more curiosities than I can recount for you here. A 
home-made hand-organ, Avith puj^pets, whose inde- 
scribable comicality consists in their sobriety of mien 
and motion, dancing a stately quadrille ; a baby- 
wagon which plays "Wait for the Wagon," as it is 
trundled to and fro on the floor; a cradle with similar 
musical properties ; a pair of tables inlaid, by immense 
labor, with a wooden mosaic representation of the 
mansions respectively of P. T. Barnum and James 
Gordon Bennett ; brackets designed and ornamented 
also with inlaid work, in an angular style, reminding 
one of Chinese art, and having the rare merit of entire 
originality, being planned and executed without the 
slightest knowledge of similar articles in the great 
world to which the railroad station is a gateway, — all 
these things may be seen and admired, and some of 
them purchased, in the modest farm-house of the 
Pipers. 



INLAND JOUENEYINGS. 197 

I meant to have wi'itten you something of the 
cheese-factories which in the last few years have 
sprung up so plentifully in this neighborhood, and to 
a great extent have revolutionized the agriculture of 
this region, relieving the housewives of that great, 
wearing, life-destroying labor of individual cheese- 
making hitherto the common practice. Most stran- 
gers who pass through here go to see these yet novel 
institutions, with their huge, sweet vats of milk, their 
curious machinery, their long, odorous rooms in which 
the cheeses get dry enough for market, the less pleas- 
antly odorous but necessary pig-sty, supported by the 
refuse matter of the manufacture. But I have other 
regions and matters of interest in view, and can afford 
to give but one letter to Barre and its notabilities. 



FIEST DAY OF THE JOURNEY. 

Barre to Greenfield. — The First Stage and the First Halt. — Foot- 
prints of a Balloon. — A Hermit in a Wilderness. — A Traveller's 
Observations. — Entering the Connecticut Valley. 

Greenfield, September, 186T. 
Tired perhaps in some measure by the enthusiasm 
for indejDendent carriage journeys expressed in my 
own letter lately sent you, I had no sooner posted 
that epistle than I set about the simple preparations 
needed for a four days' tour in the Connecticut Val- 
ley. The little bag was packed, the carriage well 
greased, the map studied, just in time for a start 
simultaneously with the first glimj^se of sunny weather 
after a fortnight or so of alternation of doubtfully 
rainy days with days whose rain left no room for 
doubt. We were off at a sensibly but not fanatically 
early hour in the morning, — nine o'clock. Our route 



198 LETTERS. 

led first, after leaving Barre, through the neighboring 
town of Petersham, its familiar aspect altered by the 
transformation of its hotel into a more imposing struc- 
ture for use as a seminary. As I rode through the 
village, the old nonsensical rhyme rang pertinaciously 
through my head : — 

" Barre for beauty, Petersham for pride, 
If it had n't been for codfish, Dana would have died." 

And I wondered, but all in vain, what circumstances 
in far distant times could have suggested or justified 
these laconic generalizations of the traits of a neigh- 
borhood. But the new sights of a road untraversed 
in less extended rides, leading to New Salem, drove 
off these profitless speculations. This whole region 
is one whose j)rosperity is in the past ; whose glory is 
in tradition rather than in hope ; whose people esteem 
it in that unkindest kind of fondness summed up in 
Webster's terse phrase, "a good place to emigrate 
from." The tendency of the day and place might be 
judged from the number of entirely deserted bouses 
we passed ; not many, indeed, but noticed because in 
brisker Barre, whose thrift is in the present, and in 
all the towns a little lower down on the map, such 
things are entirely unknown. The rocky, hilly, thick- 
ly Avooded farms were carefully cultivated, indeed, and 
the scattered farmers ai^parently prosperous in a small 
way ; but the absence of the mowing-machines, horse- 
rakes, and tedders, now so universally used elsewhere, 
was conspicuous for miles. The dwellings, too, were 
small, judged by the standard of our starting-point ; 
but their low walls were shaded in almost every in- 
stance by fine groves of trees, which the good taste 
of the oriojinal settler had left standino; for shade and 
ornament in spite of the inclination, always strong in 
the pioneer, to chop down every tree which could re- 



INLAND JOURNEYINGS. 199 

mind him of the supremacy of the forest. Thus the 
hmiiblest houses have an air of comfort and hixury 
in the possession of venerable trees, which the richest 
must lack for generations in a region entirely denuded 
of the primeval growth by the undiscriminating axe- 
man. 

Another feature worth noticing in visiting this, one 
of the few sj)ots in New England w^here neither agri- 
culture nor manufactures seem to flourish, is the excel- 
lence of the roads, ke^tt up, in the most sparsely popu- 
lated localities, by the people themselves, through the 
purely democratic agency of town-meetings. The 
school-house appears at every cross-road ; and in every 
way the contrast to a Southern country of no less 
wealth and jDopulation, but uneducated, lazy, and 
poorly organized inhabitants, is most j^lainly manifest. 

Our first halt for dinner was made, after a drive of 
thirteen miles, at a rural hotel of the most emi^hati- 
cally rustic character, where the landlord must be 
summoned from his momng in a distant field to put 
up the horse, and the landlady herself cooks the re- 
past in the intervals of entertaining her guests, — a 
jolly little inn, indeed, with a diminutive post-office 
in its public room, and almost half a mile from any 
other house. It is the very spot made memorable by 
the first landing of the great balloon Hyperion, last 
summer ; and the field in which the monster descended 
still bears the marks of trampling feet from the scores 
of people who came from all the country round to see 
the strange visitor. Our hostess gave in reply to our 
questions a graphic account of the extraordinary ex- 
perience, evidently still fi-esh in the home-talk of all 
that region, and told how the half-dozen wet but hila- 
rious gentlemen, coming into the house early in the 
morning, were taken naturally for jocose fishermen, 



200 LETTERS. 

and their story of having " come in a balloon, ma'am," 
was received with scornful disbelief, as badinage, per- 
haps funny enough for once, but stale after repetition. 
Im23robability had to be accepted at last, however, as 
fact ; and the balloon with its inevitable journalist 
went up again later in the day, giving the inhabitants 
of quiet New Salem a treat not to be enjoyed there 
once in a century, all at the expense of the uncon- 
scious tax-payers of far-away Boston. 

It might be thought that residence up there in any 
fashion would be seclusion enough for any reasonable 
hermit; but there is one insatiable lover of solitude, 
whose house we passed in going through New Salem, 
who not only shuts himself up from all communion 
with the neighbors, but even leans great planks against 
his windows to j^revent any passers-by from glancing 
at the loneliness in which he lives upon his income, 
barred out from all mankind. 

Leaving the hospitable inn which had invigorated 
ourselves and our horse for the long journey of the 
latter part of the day, we clambered the high hill upon 
which the village of New Salem is perched, and thence 
obtained a view of a very wide expanse of country, 
which I might describe to you at length, were not 
Mount Holyoke one of the chief objective points of 
our expedition. For a long distance, the road west- 
ward is cut through the woods, with neither neighbor- 
ing houses nor distant prosi3ects to enliven the jour- 
ney. We passed the entrance to a rough meadow- 
path leading to a mineral spring in the northern part 
of the town of Shutesbury, which, a generation ago, 
was the object of pilgrimages of anxious invalids, and 
still has a high reputation for curative powers. There 
is only a single house at the spring (now ambitiously 
christened Mount Mineral), and this is crowded by 



INLAND JOURNEYINGS. 201 

six or seven boarders. We should have driven to this 
notable spot, and given you an account of the spring 
and its visitors ; but the State constable has extended 
his desolating hand to this inland region ; the hotel at 
Montague is closed, because it is not profitable to keep 
it open without the privilege of liquor-selling ; and in 
order to get through to Greenfield in comfortable 
season, all temptations to delay must be resisted. 

The ride from Lock's Villao-e throuo^h Monta2:ue to 
Greenfield is more delightful than I can tell, including 
as it does, a gi-adual entrance to the Connecticut Val- 
ley, with the accompanying entire change in the aspect 
of the country. In place of rocky pastures, one-story 
houses, and large tracts of rough woodland, we came 
upon an open country, fertile meadows, and the stately 
domiciles of well-to-do farmers. All the implements 
for labor-saving in husbandry which ingenuity has in- 
vented seemed in use on every farm. As we ap- 
proached the river, the tobacco-culture, as utterly un- 
known as that of rice or cotton in the towns left behind 
in the morning, greeted us on all sides ; and every bam 
w^as perforated with the long slits, making its sides 
mere lattice-work, left open for drying the leaves just 
gathered. The shrill steam-whistle and ugly, glaring 
signs of the railroad-crossing told us that we were 
nearer the convenience of civilization than when we 
started ; and, crossing the Connecticut by a toll-bridge, 
we drove into Greenfield before sunset, to find at our 
hotel here the unwonted luxury of gas-burners and 
other amenities of city life hardly to be looked for in 
a rural ride like this. Thirty-six miles, accomplished 
before you have got comfortably seated in a railroad- 
car, is no small achievement in the most comfort- 
able of carriages. It includes hundreds of little dis- 
coveries and delights which evaporate on the pen if 
9* 



202 LETTERS. 

one seeks to record them at the journey's end, and it 
hidudes also some fatigue which prevents any further 
elaboration of narrative which might otherwise be 
attempted here. 



SECOND DAY OF THE JOURNEY. 

South Deerfield, September, 1867. 

In leaving Greenfield this morning, we drove about 
the streets of that pleasant, bustling town, and saw some 
of its fine residences, and its spacious, handsome jail, 
in the middle of a great lawn, which some weary city 
folk misrht almost covet as a summer retreat, so cool 
and sweet and shady is its outward aspect. The 
barred windows were many, and we were left to sur- 
mise in vain which of them was the scene of the recent 
romance of the jail, — for Greenfield has a romance, 
and I should like to tell you all about it if the comj^ass 
of this letter afforded room for the narrative. A 
young, pretty, and rather brilliant woman, riding 
about the country and obtaining money by altered 
checks on country banks; an arrest and escape; a 
recapture and tedious imprisonment ; a trial and elo- 
quent speech to the judge, hinting at high connections, 
a genius for sculpture, encouragement from Hiram 
Powers, and a wild desire to go to Italy stimulating to 
sudden crime ; the discovery, following the transfer of 
the prisoner to serve out her light sentence elsewhere, 
that the steel spring of her hoop-skirt had furnished a 
saw which had nearly severed the bars of her cell here : 
with these hints your readers may fill out the story 
to suit themselves. There is material enough for a 
novel in the facts. 

I tried to buy a guide-book to the river region at 



INLAND JOUENEYINGS. 203 

Greenfield, where one would think the demand for 
them would be constant ; but the bookseller had only- 
seen such a work in the hands of the newsboys on the 
cars, and recommended me to board a train to obtain 
one. After all, I am glad I did not get it, for the 
pleasantest j^art of such a ride as this is the unexpect- 
edness of its discoveries, and the general sense of ex- 
ploration which accompanies a wanderer where con- 
stant inquiries and study of the guide-boards are 
needed to find the way. 

A detour for a visit of friendship, with which the 
public has notliing to do, made our direct progress 
rather brief to-day; but the distance of seven or eight 
miles traversed in reaching this village is exceedingly 
pleasant, and worth j^assing over slowly. The Deerfield 
River is crossed by a toll-bridge near Greenfield, and 
thence the road runs close beside the stream, as level 
as a floor, and almost as hard. On the right are 
meadows, whose brilliant green has not yet begun to 
feel the sobering touch of autumn, and from which the 
farmers are gathering second crops of hay almost equal 
to the first growth in the less fertile region from which 
we came. On the left are very gentle and modest 
hills, and fields generally just stripped of their tobacco- 
leaves. 

After only two miles we passed through the village 
of Deerfield, certainly entitled to the distinction of 
being the loveliest in New England from the vener- 
able grandeur of the elms which make an uninter- 
rupted arch of green over the whole length of its long 
single street. Every house has its share of these 
noble old trees, rarely less than ten or fifteen feet in 
girth, and all seemingly in the very prime of life, at a 
century and a half Wc did not see a store or shop 
of any kind in the whole serene, placid village ; and 



204 LETTERS. 

its air of age was not marred by any dwellings of 
notable newness of architecture. At the centre the 
street widens into a common, at one corner of which 
a group, perha2:>s from the pretty hotel near by, were 
playing croquet, and in which stands the new soldiers' 
monument, dedicated, as your columns have already 
chronicled, but a fortnight or so ago. It is of brown 
freestone, graceful in design and remarkably imposing 
in effect. The statue of a soldier on the summit of 
the column is particularly good, — the pensive though 
dignified bearing of the figure suggesting that its 
thoughts are of the dead whose names are carved 
beneath. These, classified in companies, occupy two 
sides of the monument ; the other two are occupied by 
a simply eloquent inscription setting forth the purpose 
of the monument, and another stating that its site is 
that of the old fort in which the settlers of Deerfield, 
the ancestors of these Union soldiers, almost two hun- 
dred years ago had such desperate struggles with the 
Indians. 

Entering this village of South Deerfield five or six 
miles further down, we crossed a bridge of four or five 
planks' width only, and soon came upon a simple 
marble monument, erected thirty years ago, and 
closely shaded by a little grove, which states that the 
stream just passed is the Bloody Brook, which appears 
in all histories of pioneer times, and that upon that 
very spot, in the month of September, 1675, a party 
of soldiers escorting teams from Deerfield to Pladley, 
were ambuscaded by seven hundred Indians, and 
nearly all killed. Ca23tain Lothrop commanded the 
company, which contained, according to "a cotempo- 
rary historian," as quoted on the monument, " the 
flower of the young men of the county of Essex." 
The savages were loath to give up this lovely valley, 



INLAND JOUENEYINGS. 205 

the most precious of their broad possessions, and took 
every means to harass and discom-age the intruders 
into their domain here ; and, once driven from these 
strongholds, they have never made so sturdy and 
defiant a resistance since. The battle, or rather 
slaughter, of Bloody Brook is commemorated, not 
only by the monument I have spoken of, and by 
a stone slab near by which marks the burial- 
place of the victims of the ambush, but also by an 
ancient oil-painting, about eight feet by six, which 
covers the wall of the entry-way of the rustic hotel 
where I am quartered. Age has effaced nearly all the 
picture, except a few dim figures of naked red men 
and blue-coated Puritans just visible through the 
cracks in the canvas in the foregi-ound, and a com- 
paratively recent inscription giving the facts of the 
massacre, painted in black letters ujDon the faded sky 
of the original artist. 

South Deerfield might be esteemed a charming vil- 
lage but for the comparison inevitably made with the 
older elms and statelier mansions of the elder settle- 
ment just left behind. It has a store or two, even a 
barber's shop, and a railroad station ; but the inn at 
which we have paused for the night is of the most 
primitive rural order, with many quaint peculiarities, 
of which more anon. I note among the exceptional 
traits of the inhabitants that they get their Boston 
news and Massachusetts intelligence generally fi^-om 
the New York Herald ; and, as might be expected of 
such benighted descendants of the pilgrims, two of 
them beside me are discussing the convention at 
Worcester, with the idea firmly entertained by both 
that the " P. L. L." resolution of Mr. A. O. Allen was 
introduced by the attorney-general of the Common- 
wealth. Such is fame. 



206 LETTERS. 

THIRD DAY OF THE JOURNEY. 

Amherst, September, 1867. 
Whe^t we entered South Deerfield, the bold crest 
of Sugar Loaf Mountam, with a Uttle house perched 
on the very brmk of its most precipitous side, loomed 
up sharply in the east, and was decidedly the most 
prominent feature of the landscape. When we drove 
away this morning it was invisible, and we should not 
have known that any such elevation was in the neigh- 
borhood. These fogs are the chronic weakness of 
these Connecticut Valley towns, so lovely in situation 
and general characteristics, otherwise faultless in 
summer and autumn climate. We greeted the thick, 
chokino' mist which enshrouded the first few miles 
of our journey this morning as a token that the day 
would not be permanently marred by rain, and waited 
patiently for its lifting, which came, as the old resi- 
dents of the region had j)redicted, before ten o'clock. 
The road leading down the bank of the river to 
Northampton differed in some respects from any we 
had yet seen. Level, narrow, and sometimes sandy, 
it led straight through the meadows without any 
intervening fences, — none of which, indeed, could be 
seen for miles around from some points of the route. 
This feature made the ride suggestive of prairie 
travelling. The fields among which we passed were 
most of them devoted to the culture of broom-corn, 
standing at this season tall and slender, with a more 
graceful stateliness than the ordinary corn, and wav- 
ing luxuriant brown tassels like an army with banners. 
The Connecticut ran so quietly and so nearly on our 
own level on our left, that we rarely caught a glimpse 
of it; and we seemed to be threading a broad, uninter- 
rupted expanse of clover, tobacco, and cornfields. 



INLAND JOURNEYINGS. 207 

Hatfield, through the length of which we passed, is 
almost as venerable as Deerfield, built in the same 
style along one broad, elm-shaded street, without one 
store or shop of any kind to interrupt the serenity of 
its quiet. The trees are not quite so old as those of 
Deerfield, and the street is longer ; I should think at 
least half a mile from end to end. We should hardly 
have known, from any glimpse of inhabitants, that its 
big, comfortable old mansions were tenanted at all; 
but everything about them was the perfection of neat- 
ness and order, and it was evident that the dwellers 
on these grand estates were not far away. Some New 
England Irving must be in training somewhere to 
celebrate as it deserves the complete rest of this 
eastern Sleepy Hollow. 

We reached I^Torthampton before eleven, and found 
in its brick rows and bustling streets the stores where 
all the poj^ulation of the unbusiness-like yet populous 
towns through which we passed do their purchasing 
of the few articles not raised on their broad, versatile 
farms. Had I been a reader of "Norwood," I pre- 
sume I should have explored all the streets of the 
town with j^articular zest ; but I have not followed up 
Mr. Beecher's story in its serial issue ; and, to tell the 
truth, the place had a savor of the city about it quite 
abhorrent to the barbarian tastes which my wander- 
ing habits of late have fostered. So I pushed hastily 
through, noting in the transit one or two of those 
dashing spans, elegant barouches, liveried coachmen, 
and gayly dressed children which one sees in such 
numbers at Ne^svi^ort and Saratoga, showing that my 
route here intersected one of the fiivored retreats of 
fashion and wealth fi'om the metropolis. The road to 
the river-bank was like that before reaching North- 
ampton, fenceless, through level meadows ; and a few 



208 LETTERS. 

rods to the right of it, had we known of its existence, 
we might have seen the largest tree in Western 
Massachusetts, — an elm, still youthful and vigorous, 
thirty-one feet in girth. But no guide-post points the 
traveller to the giant tree, and we got only a distant 
view of it from the top of Mount Holyoke. 

The ferry by which visitors to the mountain from 
Northampton cross the Connecticut at this point, 
called the Hockanum, deserves a separate paragraph. 
No wharf or slip marks the point of departure, but 
the road becomes more and more sandy as it broadens 
at the river-bank, and the boat rests her bow upon 
this soft and convenient landing. The little craft — its 
deck perhaps broad enough for two carriages, and 
with absolutely no barrier to prevent a nervous horse 
from walking off into the stream — is propelled by pad- 
dles turned by a little steam-engine hardly larger than 
a cooking-stove. One man acts as ticket-seller, cap- 
tain, engineer, fireman, pilot, and crew. There is no 
rudder, but a long paddle at either end, with which 
this solitary Charon, stepj^ing away from the engine 
for a minute or two, directs the course of the steamer. 
At one terminus he pumps up water from the river to 
fill the little boiler ; at the other he gathers an armful 
of wood to supply the fire. On the trip made for our 
sole benefit, he got off his course, in his manifold 
duties, and had to put back to the middle of the river 
to make a fresh landing. For so much labor and 
machinery I expected surely to pay a corresponding 
price, and was slightly surprised to be made poorer 
by the ride only in the sum of thirteen cents. 

Mount Holyoke rises abruptly from the river-bank 
almost a thousand feet. The first half of the ascent 
is accomplished by a winding carriage-road, well kept, 
but quite too steep for comfort, and so hard that I 



INLAND JOURNEYINGS. 209 

thought my empty carriage, a heavy one, a sufficient 
load for my horse, and led him up by easy stages. 
This part of the road is soon to be made easier by a 
wooden railway running to the foot of the mountain. 
It appears to be very nearly completed, and the car is 
ready in advance of the track. But at present one 
must trust his own horseflesh for the first half of the 
way, leaving his steed at a stable at the foot of the 
grand staircase. This is a covered way, six hundred 
feet long, accomplishing a perpendicular ascent of three 
hundred and sixty-five feet, enclosing both a stair- 
way of five hundred steps and a railway traversed by 
one little car with seats for four persons. This ve- 
hicle, in which nervous people take their places with 
considerable dread, runs, of course, on ropes, and is 
drawn up by horse-power. Steam was formerly used, 
the engine being at the top ; but a windlass, turned 
by four horses at the foot, now takes its place. The 
change makes the motion irregular, every touch of 
the whip and every pause of a tired horse being per- 
ceptible in the car, and the frequent pauses constantly 
suggesting some trouble below. The covering of the 
railway, making the progress hke that through a tun- 
nel, which is an improvement of the present year, 
takes away from the frightfulness of the trip, which 
must have seemed very much like ballooning under 
the old open system. The ascent is made in five 
minutes, — a short time to think of, but a long one in 
experience, in that sort of travel. The car of course 
goes down by its own weight, regulated by brakes at 
the top, and reached the foot in our case in a minute 
and a half. There has been no accident since last 
year, so the railway is very j^opular, and I saw no one 
choose the more laborious method of the stairs. There 
is a sort of breathlessness and suspense about the 



210 LETTERS. 

upward journey which makes the arrivals an object of 
constant curiosity to those above, and one emerges into 
the upper air with an odd sense of inspection under 
trying circumstances by the occupants of a new planet. 

The view from the hotel at the summit (into the 
very centre of which you are dropped out from the 
railway) is enough to take one's breath away after it 
is recovered from the novel journey. No pen could do 
justice to it, and mine certainly will not attempt the 
task. It is superior to the spectacle offered from many 
higher mountains, because this stands in the midst of 
so broad a plain, in which there are so many spots of 
unusual beauty. The Connecticut seems reluctant to 
pass through this section, and indulges itself in bends 
which treble and quadrnple the distance accomplished. 
Northampton seems directly beneath the sj^ectator, 
though fully three miles away ; and one favorite 
achievement of visitors is to tell the time on its 
steeple by the aid of the big telescope. Of these 
glasses of various sizes there are many at the Prospect 
House, besides spectacles of green and red and yel- 
low hues, that turn the landscape into different kinds 
of unnatural brilliancy. There are also swings, bowl- 
ing alleys, miniature bowling alleys, and a great vari- 
ety of toys ; and it is a notable instance of the effect 
of mountain scenery upon the average human being, 
that the great majority of visitors devote half an horn- 
to these recreations to every five minutes bestowed 
on the landscape. Most of them, I presume, would 
not think of ^olaying parlor bowls or looking through 
the slits in a whirling cyhnder, on the ordinary level ; 
but the magnificent view from Mount Holyoke is too 
grand to be enjoyed long at a time, and sends peojDle 
to these juvenile occupations for relief. 

The Prospect House is, I think, unique of its kind, 



INLAND JOURNEYINGS. 211 

and is certainly a model for similar elevated establish- 
ments. The ground floor is so arranged as to be all 
thrown open to the view in fine weather, the sides of 
the room being hoisted up out of the way. When 
this might be too breezy for comfort, they are let 
down, and little circular windows give glimpses of the 
prospect. There is entire freedom, and independence 
for visitors, the only arbitrary charge being seventy- ,. 
five cents each for the use of the car or steps ; and | 
parties bringing their own refreshments are welcomed, 
and aided to picnic in the neighboring groves. Those 
who dine at the house are received in turn, according 
to the precedence of their orders, in a little dining- 
room accommodating twenty-five, where is constantly 
renewed a collation, all cold, except the tea and cofiee, 
but abundant, and of excellent neatness and simplicity, 
to which the appetite natural to the region adds a 
sauce which an emperor might envy. The second 
story provides lodgings for those who wish to see the 
glories of sunset and sunrise on the mountain ; but we 
did not try the experiment. In these days of lofty 
prices on low ground, it is worth mentioning that the 
charge for each item — each meal, each lodging, the 
entertainment of each horse — is fixed with a jjleasant 
uniformity at fifty cents. 

Taking into account the fatigue of my horse, to 
which fell all the labor with none of the delights, of 
ascending and descending the mountain, I drove only 
to this neighboring town of Amherst this afternoon, 
making an early halt. A very slight detour gave us 
a sight of old Hadley Street, always a place of interest 
to me as the scene of the most romantic interest in 
early American history, — the sudden appearance of 
the excited regicide to lead the terrified citizens, who 
took him for an angel from heaven, against the raid- 



212 LETTERS. 

ing savages who were despoiling their homes, — and 
now doubly interesting as the " Oxbow Village," which 
is the scene of most of the events of " The Guardian 
Angel." It fairly rivals, and in some respects excels, 
even Deerfield in beauty. The elms are not quite so 
large, and, being more widely separated, do not form 
an arch ; but the central space is a smooth green com- 
mon, nnmarred either by fences or by encroaching 
wheel- tracks, and broad enough for the parades of the 
greatest militia gatherings of ante-war training-days. 
The row of trees lining the roadway on each side of 
this grand avenue is double, the inner ones being 
fine old elms, and those nearest the houses of younger 
growth. The mansions are nearly all crowned with 
the aristocracy of age, and have a sweet dignity of 
their own, unknown to newer and more pretentious 
houses of the pepper-box pattern or the Mansard roof 
I looked in vain for "the hang-bird's nest" of the 
Professor's narrative, the slow, leisurely movement of 
which seems delightfully appropriate to this locality. 
But I saw Byles Gridley. He had his spectacles on 
his forehead, and a huge book, the title of which I 
seemed to guess, in his hand ; and he looked with a 
not unkindly gaze at my carriage as I drove by the 
door at which he stood. 



FOUKTH DAY OF THE JOURNEY. 

Home Again, September, 1867. 
Mount Holyoke took up so much space in my 
last letter that I had not a line to give to Amherst, into 
which we drove just too late in the afternoon to have 
an inside inspection of its college buildings. The vil- 
lage itself is not particularly attractive to a stranger's 



INLAND JOURNEYINGS. 213 

eye fresh from the river towns, its common being nar- 
row, hilly, and irregular, its trees comparatively young, 
and its 23rincipal buildings commonj)lace, — though it 
has one elegant church, and quite a number of fine 
residences of the modern tyi^e. The lion of the place 
is, of course, the College Hill, crowned, not only by the 
institution buildings, but by a noble grove, just now 
marred by the deposit of a quantity of granite for 
some new edifice in contemplation. In climbing this 
eminence we met one of the Japanese students who 
are obtaining a Yankee education here, arrayed, not 
in the petticoat, flowing sleeves, and waterfall of his 
nation, as revealed to us by the jugglers last winter, 
but in civilized garments of the unpretentious and 
comfortable order. After passing this Oriental gentle- 
man, with his books under his arm, and seemingly all 
bent on study, it made an odd antithesis to find the 
American students all engaged in athletic feats, gain- 
ing back slowly by gymnastics the physical force 
which a sedentary generation has sacrificed. The 
gymnasium is open to visitors, and apparently a popu- 
lar resort with the townspeople at the exercising hour, 
for we found the little gallery well filled with lookers- 
on. The students were all in a convenient and rather 
pretty uniform, and as we entered were just con- 
cluding a sort of half-military, half-saltatory calisthenic 
exercise, under the leadership of an instructor. After 
this succeeded an interval of disorganized exercise, 
half fun and frolic ; and some more adept of the young 
men displayed skill in trapeze swinging and leaping 
from a spring-board that would not have been dis- 
dained by a professional performer. The rivalry of 
classes would occasionally peep out ; and once, two 
youths of difierent years getting hold of the ends of a 
strap strong enough for pulling, they were speedily 



214 LETTEES. 

re-enforced, in response to cries of " Seven ! " "Eight ! " 
by nearly all in the room on one side or the other, the 
remoter ones clinging and pulling by each other's 
waists or feet, and a sphited contest of several minutes 
ensued, in which victory wavered very doubtfully, and 
the spectators caught the excitement of the students, 
until at last the cause of contention and emblem of 
triumiDh was borne off by the stronger party. 

To-day's ride, traversing Belchertown, Ware, and 
Hardwick, left behind the tobacco barns, the gently 
rolling fields, and the still unchanged foliage, and 
brought us back into the region of cheese-factories, of 
long hills, of browned pastures, and woods already 
hanging out the banners of red and yellow on the trees 
that serve as the pioneer scouts of autumn. Compara- 
tively speaking, the route was a dull one, and had few 
excitements beyond the always pleasurable sensation 
of getting home again ; so, with your leave, I will pass 
it over with no more minute summary, and conclude 
this farewell letter with a few general results and hints 
to those who may take similar modest excursions to 
that here recorded. 

In choosing a horse for such a pleasure journey, 
evenness, steadiness, and endurance are better quali- 
ties than speed. One wants a horse to go well the 
last part of the day, when he himself is tired, and longs 
for the comforts of his inn ; to look calmly upon pass- 
ing locomotives, and mowing machines, and ingenious 
scarecrows ; to stand patiently while one inquires the 
way at a farm-house, explores an attractive cemetery, 
or rifles a blackberry-bush ; and there are few regions, 
if the route be well selected, which it is desirable to 
pass over at a racer's pace. 

For similar reasons the carriage should be comfort-^ 
able rather than elegant, easy to get into and out of, 



INLAND JOURNEYINGS. 215 

with conveniences for opening wide on a pleasant day, 
and amj^le protection on a cold or rainy one, and room 
for stowing baggage out of the way of the occupant's 
feet. With these qualifications, every pound of weight 
saved in the construction of the vehicle is an addition 
to the comfort of the horse, and hence of the passen- 
gers. 

Baggage taken on such a trip must perforce be 
slight, and should be of as few articles as possible. A 
large shawl, in addition to other outer garments, is a 
sensible provision. A book or a pack of cards for a 
dull evening or a rainy day in a rural inn will be very 
sure to come into play. 

As to these same rural inns, it is not best to place 
too much dependence upon them as affording tastes of 
the comforts of country living. I, in my innocence, 
supposed that these village hotels, in the midst of a 
land flowing with milk and honey, would make a 
specialty of those viands easy to obtain, and not 
always found in city houses. But the advantages of 
those simple things which alone would furnish such an 
admirable table — the eggs, the cream, the vegetables, 
the maple syrup — are all ignored by the country land- 
lords. In all my ramble, in this season of abundant 
vegetation, I saw hardly a tomato, an ear of corn, or 
anything beyond the indispensable jDotato, on a hotel 
table ; and in other kinds of provision an equal pov- 
erty was apparent; while dependence was placed 
upon the commonplace articles of a third-rate city 
table, cooked in a style several centuries behind M. 
Blot's standard. This makes less difference than might 
be supposed in a jovirney like mine, because the appe- 
tite imparted by the long rides and constant change 
of air takes all fastidiousness from the palate and makes 
all victual welcome. But it is worth noting that, in a 



216 LETTERS. 

region of such illimitable opportunities, the public 
houses take so little pains to make the cuisine attrac- 
tive. 

Other than this, the most remarkable feature about 
the country hotels, as I have seen them, is the absence 
of Irish " help." Those who think the old Yankee 
stock is being crowded out by foreign immigration 
should sojourn in the towns through which I have just 
passed, where the man who grooms the horse, the girl 
who passes the food and she who cooks it, and the 
chambermaid, if the inn boasts so many attendants, 
are all youthful natives of the neighborhood, serving 
in this way their apprenticeship to life, and waiting 
without impatience the " opening " or the husband to 
introduce them to another sphere of usefulness. The 
proverbial repugnance of young women of American 
birth to "housework" seems not to have penetrated 
so far inland ; and hence the evil of " servant-gal-ism " 
is unknown. The same remarks apply, so far as I can 
judge from a mere ride through the country, to private 
dwellings as to hotels ; and I sincerely trust that the 
revelation thus made will not stimulate such a rush of 
imported servant-girls to the happy region as to de- 
moralize labor there, and introduce the popular idea 
that the kitchen is a degrading place for an American 
woman. 

It is so rare that a journalist travels without the 
traditional privileges of his profession, that I may im- 
prove the opportunity to state for the guidance of 
those readers who may be temj^ted into an emulation 
of our carriage tour, that the cheapness of this mode 
of travelling corresponds with its enjoyableness. Two 
persons may make the trip I have sketched, occupying 
four or five days, at a total expense of less than twenty- 
five dollars. This, of course, supposes the tourist to be 



A RAMBLE THROUGH PETERSBURG. 217 

in possession of a team of his own, and includes all 
hotel, stable, and ordinary incidental expenses. 

Most peoj^le have a mental corner of some kind for 
statistics. We satisfied our craving in that line by a 
count of the bridges crossed each day ; and the aggre- 
gate number would perhaps suq^rise any one not pre- 
pared for the result by experiment. It was sixty-four. 

Wachusett. 



A RAMBLE THROUGH PETERSBURG. 

City Point, April 3, 1865. 

YoTiR coiTespondent spent the night in the pleasant 
confidence that Petersburg, at least, would be in our 
hands before morning. Sleeping close by our line of 
works, he dozed to the sound of picket-firing during the 
first hours of the night, and was awakened at about 
3 A. M. by a heavy exj^losion which appeared to come 
from the magazine of one of the batteries on the rebel 
left.. At this time the whole horizon in the direction 
of Petersburg was illumined by a dull red glare, the 
light of a dozen fires kindled by the departing enemy 
in difi:erent parts of the city. Still the unceasing 
picket-shots told us that the Rebels had not yet left 
the trenches in our front. 

With daybreak came the whisper, running through 
the camps like lightning, that Petersburg had been 
evacuated, and that the troops of the Ninth Corps 
were already in the city. A moment's breathless 
silence confirmed the rumor, for we Avould hear from 
among the spires the notes of Union bands, playing 
joyfully the grand old round of national airs, from 
"America," "Yankee Doodle," and "The Star Span- 

10 



218 LETTERS. 

gled Banner," to the more recent favorite, " Glory, 
Hallelujah," "Rally Round the Flag," and '• The Year 
of Jubilo." The glorious news was true. The obsti- 
nate Rebel stronghold, which had resisted every effort 
of assault and siege for so many weary months, had at 
last succumbed to the brilliant strategy and splendid 
iighting of the Union officers and soldiers. Men 
laughed and sung and danced with joy at the victory, 
which seemed perhaps more precious to those who have 
aided in the long siege, and could personally appre- 
ciate its difficulties and trials and doubts, than to 
you at home. Officers of all ranks and men of all 
characters gave full vent to their enthusiasm ; for 
miles the line of our camps was noisy with continuous 
cheers ; the military bands, stationed at intervals, all 
struck up joyful and j^atriotic melodies ; and your cor- 
respondent shouldered his haversack, and set out in 
light marching order for the Cockade City. Passing 
through our line of earthworks, no longer swarming 
with their garrisons, and crossing the trench just 
beyond, which sheltered our outer pickets, I found 
myself in the Rebel rifle-pits. A devious covered way 
led me to their abatis. Their manner of constructing 
this defence is very different from that adopted by the 
Union engineers. Our system is very simple, consist- 
ing of stout poles, two inches in diameter, and ten or 
fifteen feet long, planted firmxly in the earth and in- 
clining outward at an angle with the ground of 
about thirty degrees. The outer ends are sharpened, 
and beneath them, lying on the ground, are placed the 
bristling boughs and tops of evergreen trees. The 
poles are set very close together, and it seems as if it 
must be an impossibility for an enemy to break through 
them without a long pause, and the aid of axes. The 
abatis on the Rebel defences is most unlike this in 



A RAMBLE THROUGH PETERSBURG. 219 

appearance and principle. It resembles somewhat a 
long row of saw-horses, set u]) together endwise, with 
the upper ends of the outer limbs sharpened to a 
point, — and I think of no terms in which I can more 
clearly describe it. Each one of these saw-horses is 
distinct in itself, and as they are not very deeply im- 
bedded in the ground, and may be easily pushed 
around by force inside, they afford no obstacle to the 
egress of a column on a sortie, although they are for- 
midable interruptions to the advance of an attacking 
party from without. 

Some predecessor in the journey had kindly opened 
a gap in the Rebel line of abatis, and I hurried along 
into the Rebel fortifications. Here were ample evi- 
dences that the departure of the Rebels, which seemed 
to us so gradual and deliberate, must have been 
effected in the greatest haste. ISTot only were the 
heavy guns standing in the embrasures, and the maga- 
zine packed full with ammunition, the scarcity of which 
in the Rebel camps would surely have prompted its 
removal, if it were possible, but the tents, so dear to 
the soldiers' comfort, and so easily transported, were 
all left standing. The log, canvas, and brick quarters 
appeared very comfortable, and about as pleasant 
abodes as those in which the Union soldiers have 
spent the winter. Inside the Rebel cabins and tents 
were scattered, profusely and confusedly, blankets, 
clothing, books and letters, muskets and rifles in great 
numbers, thousands of cartridges, equij^ments of every 
kind, intrenching tools, cooking utensils, official orders, 
rolls, receipts, etc., and a multitude of other articles 
of all descriptions. I saw no effort to take any care 
of all this property by the commanders of our forces. 
Scores of negroes from Petersburg, male and female, 
were collecting what suited their needs among the 



220 LETTERS. 

heaps, and gathering together huge bundles, which 
they carried home on their heads. I might have 
picked up trophies enough to stock a small museum; 
but, anticipating still more interesting sights and 
worthier relics further on, I j^ushed on without much 
delay towards Petersburg. 

It is about a mile from the main Rebel line on the 
east to the city. The country is quite pleasant, un- 
dulating, and traversed by numberless little winding 
creeks. There are very few trees left in this vicinity, 
the needs of the camp-fire having jDroved fatal to the 
forest. The grass is green and already quite high, 
and the peach and aj^ple trees are in full bloom. Not 
a cannon or musket-shot was to be heard in any direc- 
tion, and the only sound was in the jubilant strains of 
the Union musicians in Petersburg. The conquered 
city seemed to accej^t its fate very quietly, as far as 
could be seen from a distance, and its graceful group of 
spires pointed heavenward through the mist as serenely 
as if war were a thing unknown. On the left rose Cem- 
etery Hill, a long ridge covered thickly with monu- 
ments, those erected before the war of marble, and 
tliose put up since 1861 of painted wood; many of 
both classes shattered and sj^lintered by the relentless 
shells which have no respect for the living or the dead. 
On the right, a corps of a thousand or so of laborers 
in the employ of the government were already hard 
at work putting in repair the railroad running to City 
Point. Altogether it was as pleasant and as cheerful 
a landscape as one might wish to gaze ujDon in an 
April day. 

Entering Petersburg at the poorer quarter of the 
town, I at first met none but soldiers of the Ninth 
Corps, who were everywhere, and negroes. The blacks 
one meets in a newly captured Rebel town are very 



A RAMBLE THROUGH PETERSBURG. 221 

different beings from those who wear the national 
uniform, or are employed in noncombatant capacities 
in the service of the United States. The latter fully 
realizes that all men are free and equal. His carriage 
is a constant declaration of independence. He holds 
his head erect, and walks off jauntily about his busi- 
ness or pleasure, taking his own time and route, yet 
never behindhand, nor out of the way when wanted. 
He never bows to any passer, unless it be a personal 
acquaintance. With the negro just released fromRebel 
rule, the contrary is the case. He bows obsequiously 
to every passer with the old habits of slavery too 
strong to be shaken off in an hour, but with a lurking 
smile of satisfaction on his face which seems to say 
that a salute to the delivering Yankee is a very differ- 
ent matter from a bow to the oppressing Johnny (as 
even the colored population learned to call the Rebels 
before the town had been an hour in our hands). The 
negroes in Petersburg wear motley and outlandish 
garments, giving them the most grotesque appearance 
imaginable. They hang their heads like school-boys 
called up for i^unishment, and sidle and shuffle in 
their gait, evidently because the manner is habitual 
with them. The lesson of freedom, however, is quick- 
ly learned, and in a few days they will have acquired 
much of the dignity of manhood, and carry them- 
selves as citizens, and not as cattle. 

Pushing on, with the churches for a landmark, I 
soon reached the principal street of the town, and 
found there white Rebel citizens plentiful enough. All 
the stores were closed, but around every doorway 
stood groups of men in gray clothing, sometimes chat- 
ting with the Union soldiers, who by this time — for 
it was now nine o'clock — were as thick as bees on 
every sidewalk, and more frequently standing apart in 



222 LETTERS. 

sullen knots, talking only witli each other, and staring 
in wonder at the cavalry patrols who were constantly 
galloping at full speed through the paved streets on 
mysterious missions, each man with clatter and im- 
portance enough for a whole squadron. 

If the anonymous potentate who guides the course 
of fashion wishes to get ideas really ingenious and 
original in regard to male apparel, which shall relieve 
his inventive powers frorn. further labor for the next 
five years, let him take an early trip to Petersburg, 
before the presence of commonplace Union garments 
has leavened the lumj^. Surely, never since the days 
of Robinson Crusoe did any human being venture to 
array himself in daylight in such guise as do nearly 
every one of these proud Petersburgians. IsTo words 
can do justice to the grotesqueness of these men's 
attire ; no pen unskilled in the long obsolete technical 
epithets of the tailorism of twenty years ago should 
ever attempt to describe it. The extraordinary char- 
acter of the costumes of some of the younger men, 
who apparently aspire to be dandies, is most laugh- 
able. Yet the whole matter has its mournful side, 
hinted at when some citizen gazes sadly at the dusty 
top-boots of a Union cavalry-man dashing past, with 
the muttered remark that "them would have been 
worth a thousand dollars here yesterday"; or notes 
your glance at his own sleazy gray coat, and informs 
you that he paid twelve hundred dollars for it in 
Pichmond. From wiiat observations I could make 
during my brief stay in Petersburg, I should say that 
no dweller in that city, rich or poor, has purchased a 
hat since the secession of South Carolina; and that at 
that date most of them had been for several months 
w^earing out their old ones for the sake of economy. 

The raiment of the negroes is a parody, amounting 



A RAMBLE THROUGH PETERSBURG. 223 

to a broad caricature upon what is itself supremely- 
grotesque, upon the dress of their masters. Some of 
the elder colored men are so singularly draped that 
you expect every moment that the one or two remain- 
ing buttons will give way, and the whole fluttering 
mass of rags and streamers will fly to the winds in 
confusion. The ladies of Petersburg, only a few of 
whom v<^ntured out to-day, have survived the ordeals 
of the Rebellion, in the matter of dress, much more 
successfully than their lords. ±»Iost of them dress 
plainly and simj^ly, and very many in black. It has 
been impossible to keep up with the fashion as to 
bonnets, — and an unfashionable bonnet is an absurd- 
ity; so the fair daughters of Petersburg, with femi- 
nine tact, have discarded bonnets altogether, and wear 
instead a dark scoop hat, which I am not milliner 
enough to describe more definitely, which was in style 
three or four summers ago, but which still frames 
gracefully and becomingly a pretty face. 

I am compelled to say that there is very little loyal 
sentiment among the white residents of Petersburg. 
Perhaps there is not a city in the whole South more 
thoroughly imbued with Rebel doctrines, and more 
outspoken in its avowals, under all circumstances, than 
this venerable town on the Appomattox. Some of 
the citizens were not unwilhng to talk with the in- 
vaders on national afiairs, but did not hesitate to avow 
their firm adherence to the cause of the Rebellion 
their hatred for the Union and everything therewith 
connected, and their determination to fight out the 
contest until the Confederacy should achieve its inde- 
pendence. It should be remembered that these men 
were all exempts, and have already lost all their prop- 
erty, so that they risk nothing by the continuance of 
the war. Many of the soldiers of General Lee's vet- 



224 LETTERS. 

eran army speak very differently. I wish that I had 
time to recount to you fully some of the conversation 
of the citizens of Petersburg, exhibiting as they did 
the most radical Rebel feelings of any community in 
the South. I must relinquish the attemjot, however, 
or resume it in a future letter. I should not omit to 
mention that the negroes, of both sexes and all ages, 
received our forces with the most cordial welcome, 
and seemed wild with delight that the Yankees had 
come at last. 

With a journalist's instinct, I made my way to the 
office of the "Petersburg Express," the last Rebel num- 
ber of which was issued on Saturday morning. I 
found Major R. E. Eden, of the 87th Wisconsin, assist- 
ed by Lieutenant Robert Farrell, of the 1st Wisconsin, 
busily preparing Union editorials for a new sheet to 
be started in the same office to-morrow morning. A 
solitary printer of the old establishment remained, 
and seemed nothing loath to show the new-comers the 
arrangements of the office. The mechanical conven- 
iences are very good, both tjioe and press being in 
fair condition. The editorial room was a remarkable 
place in veiy many resj^ects. It seemed to have been 
conducted for many years on the principle of destroy- 
ing nothing, and putting nothing in order. When 
the Rebel editors took their departure, they had no 
time to take anything away with them, and seemed to 
have contented themselves with stirring up the accu- 
mulated rubbish in their sanctum in such a manner as 
to make confusion worse confounded. It would take a 
week of constant labor to collect and arrange the liter- 
ary treasures of this office. In one pile of exchanges I 
noticed the "Boston Daily Advertiser," dated, I believe, 
as long ago as 1858. The walls were adorned with a 
great number and variety of pictures, among the more 



RICHMOND. — THE EFFECTS OF THE FIRE. 225 

remarkable of which were an unmistakable woodcut 
portrait of General M'Clellan, published in a Rebel 
weekly as a likeness of General N. Buford Forest, 
and a rough pencil caricature of the capture of our 
Massachusetts General, M'Laughlin, in Fort Stead- 
man, sans culotte. The walls of the "Express" office 
bore, like most of the other buildings in Petersburg, 
numerous marks of the terrible doses of shell to which 
the city has been treated in the last ten months. I 
have not by any means exhausted my notes of what 
I saw and recorded as worth telling you about in 
Petersburg; but the mail is closing, and so must I. 



rich3io:n^d. 

the effects of the fire. sexthients of the 

citize:n^s. 

The Hotels. — The Newspapers. — Rebel Relics. — Capitol Square. — 
The Provost-Marshal's Office. — President Lincoln. — The Libby 
Prison. 

Richmond, Va., April 5, 1865. 

" How long will it take me to go to Richmond ? " 
asked an eager officer at City Point of a veteran brig- 
adier holding command there, soon after we got the 
good news. 

" I can 't say how long it will take you^'' was the 
answer : " it has taken Tne three years and eleven 
months." 

It took your correspondent about a day. It was 
not so simple a matter to go from City Point to Rich- 
mond immediately after the Rebel capital fell into 
Union hands as your readers may imagine, or as your 
correspondent thought, when he received, wandering 
10* o 



226 LETTERS. 

through Petersburg, the news of the occupation of 
Richmond, and hurried back to the base of operations 
to go thence to the more important point. The 
distance, which by map and scale is twenty miles, is 
nearly doubled by the twists and bends of the river. 
Bridges all burned, the stream filled with obstructions 
and torpedoes, no transportation to be found, the ac- 
complishment of the journey to Richmond was no 
simple problem. At first, oflacials having the matter 
in charge thought the eligible route was to be found 
in the railroad via Petersburg ; but this idea was soon 
abandoned. At last, however, the many obstacles 
were overcome or circumvented by a variety of means 
not necessary to recount, and your correspondent 
found himself entering Richmond at the Rockets, 
*a few hours after the advent of the President of the 
United States. 

The story at City Point, told by those who pro- 
fessed to have gone into the city with the advance on 
Monday morning, was that only a small portion 
of the city was burned by the retreating Rebels. 
The same statement had been telegraphed North. I 
soon found its falsity. Soon after reaching Main 
Street, the traveller enters the burned district, extend- 
ing on the right to the James River, and on the left 
to the streets on the ridge of the hill. The area 
burned over extends up Main to Fifteenth Street, 
including almost the whole business portion of the 
town, in both wholesale and retail departments of 
trade, and a very large number of private dwellings, 
mostly of the poorer class of the population. In 
the district where the flames obtained sway they took 
everything, leaving no occasional buildings which 
from any cause were saved. With a single exception 
everything within the broad boundaries of the burned 



BICHMOND. — THE EFFECTS OF THE FIRE. 227 

district is a mass of ruins, still hot and smouldering. 
In other parts of the city single burned buildings are 
quite frequent, — the fragments of shells exploding in 
the arsenals having carried conflagration with them 
to distant localities. 

The extent of the destruction of this fearful fire 
will perhaps be better aj^preciated if I say that it is 
as if incendiaries had burned State Street Block and 
all the immense warehouses on Commercial, Broad, 
India, and Federal Streets, and a brisk ocean breeze 
had carried the flames irresistibly into the heart of 
the city. The Custom House here is situated much 
as in Boston, and similarly is of granite, and fire-proof. 
It is the one solitary building yet standing in the 
burned district, having passed through the terrible 
ordeal of Monday almost unscathed. Fancy, if you' 
can, Devonshire Street, and all between Broad and 
Washington Streets, both sides of Washington Street, 
from State to Summer, many buildings on Tremont 
Street, all of Fort Hill, and half the North End, one 
grand waste of ashes ; burn all the banks and insur- 
ance offices, all but two of the newspaper offices, and 
then, — remembering that Richmond, at best, is only 
one third the size of Boston, — fancy what is left. If 
your imagination is a good one, you have from this 
a tolerable idea of the results of the great fire. 

It was nearly midnight last night w^hen I arrived in 
Richmond. At first I met numerous negroes, and 
strolling squads of soldiers, black and white, more 
jolly than victory alone could make them. Occasion- 
ally a sentry j^aced the pavement in front of some 
property that the provost authorities had thought worth 
guarding. But as I entered the burned district, no 
more even of these were encountered. All was soli- 
tude. The moon gave a picturesque, and the sullen 



228 LETTERS. 

flames a weird and supernatural, light to tlie scene. 
As far as the eye could reach in every direction were 
only ruins, irregular piles of brick, thin fragments of 
walls yet standing, sometimes a single chimney or 
pillar alone remaining upright of a large block ; and 
even as I looked, perhaps one of these would topple 
over into the street, already piled thickly with fallen 
bricks. Here and there the tall granite front of some 
warehouse still stood firm, all the rest of the buildiug 
destroyed, and the moon shining with beautiful effect 
through the sashless windows of the ruin. 

The passer's feet constantly tripped in the fallen 
telegraph wire, or the hose w^hich the swift sj^read of 
the flames had compelled the firemen to abandon ; 
sometimes his face or throat felt the effects of a sud- 
den gust of smoke or puff of flame from the embers 
among which he picked his way. It was decidedly not 
a comfortable journey ; yet it was as decidedly a 
pleasant one, and perhaps the very manner which 
one would select for his entrance into a capital where 
treason had made its throne and striven its best to 
destroy the national life. Almost the first building 
which one finds standing entire and uninjured, after 
traversing the modern GomoiTah, is the Spottswood 
Hotel. This house only very narrowly escaped de- 
struction, being close by an arsenal, the shells from 
which kindled many buildings, even beyond the hotel. 
A lull in the breeze at a lucky moment saved the 
Spottswood, and I found it last night with doors open, 
receiving and welcoming as heartily guests in blue 
and gold as for four years past customers in Rebel 
motley. Rather a sudden fall in price was that in 
the tariff of the Spottswood, — from a hundred and 
fifty dollars a day on Sunday to four dollars a day on 
Monday. The house weathered the storm bravely, 



RICHMOND. — THE EFFECTS OF THE FIRE. 229 

and is now enjoying richly the comforts of a calm, — 
for already every room is taken and the tables are 
crowded. A serious disadvantage is the want of gas, 
which was shut off on Monday, on account of the 
fire, from the lower part of the city. Candles are 
four dollars each, and very scarce at that, and the 
clerk cuts off for each guest his inch of tallow very 
gingerly. Neither siege nor capture has taken from 
the hotel the quiet elegance which characterized it 
before the war. The furniture is still good, after four 
years of hard usage without a chance to replenish 
the stock from Northern workshops. The rooms are 
j^leasant, as of old ; the beds excellent, and plentifully 
supplied with superb blankets of ancient woof. The 
attendance is promj^t and efficient. The victuals are, 
of course, not what they would be in a Northern 
hotel, — for Richmond is nearly at starvation point, 
cut off long ago from Union supplies, and now from 
Rebel supplies also. Still the most is made, by skilful 
cookery, of the materials at hand, and the visitor who 
has been faring for some weeks upon military active 
campaign rations finds his dinner at the Spottswood 
almost a feast. The same proprietor, clerks, and 
employees manage the affairs of the house as under 
Rebel rule. Already there is a gi-eedy host of appli- 
cants presenting their claims to have this or that 
hotel assigned them by military edict, but I doubt 
whether their avarice will be gratified. 

A walk through the portion of Richmond which 
survives the fire shows very many features of interest. 
One is doubly convinced of the fact that the Rebellion 
is no more, and that no dreams of even its ghost need 
disturb the slumber of any Union man again. Here, 
in its capital and chief city, in less than forty-eight 
hours of loyal occupation, every essential trace of the 



230 LETTERS. 

Rebellion is vanished as if by magic. Perhaps the 
most tangible vestige of the late Confederacy is in 
the swarms of leaves of whitish-brown paper, blown 
in one's face by every wind, whirling in little circles 
in the breeze at every corner, carpeting every gutter, 
far and near. These are the scattered archives of the 
Southern Confederacy, upset, perhaps, in the haste of 
packing by some Rebel official, distributed over the 
city by Union soldiers searching through armfuls of 
the stuff for valuable autographs or curious documents. 
One must examine the mass long now before finding 
aught worth saving. Invoices, ordnance returns, re- 
ceipts, requisitions, pay-rolls, transportation orders, 
dry and formal matters all ; after a few glances one 
puts his foot on the rustling heaps in contempt, and 
passes on. 

The citizens, although the story of their enthusiasm 
in greeting our men is doubtless fabulous, seem to 
have accepted the condition of things with the sensi- 
ble determination to make the best of it. We surely 
cannot expect of a man who for four years has lived 
in the shadow of Jefferson Davis, and read nothing 
but the issues of the Richmond press, that he could 
cheer for Union, Lincoln, and emancipation at a day's 
notice. If he does so, he is probably insincere, and 
not to be trusted with anything. If he submits to 
the fortune which Providence and war have brought 
him cheerfully and with common-sense, aiming to re- 
spect and obey the powers that be, it is all we can 
expect, and may in time be made the foundation of 
something much better. The citizens of Richmond, 
although they have suffered ten times the loss of their 
neighbors of Petersburg, wear easily and not ungra- 
ciously the yoke under which the people of the Cock- 
ade City chafe most bitterly. The women make calls 



EICHMOND. — SENTIMENTS OF THE CITIZENS. 231 

upon each other as usual, chat about the exciting 
scenes of Monday, and devise measures for the relief 
of those left without shelter or food. The men do not 
go about their business, for few of them have any place 
of business left. They sit quietly in theu' houses, or 
converse in groujDS about the doors, or go to look at the 
Yankee uniforms and listen to the Yankee bands. 
They talk fi-eely with the soldiers, speak frankly of 
the parties in the war as "Union" and "Kebel," 
and, in short, conduct themselves precisely as if their 
city had been in our hands a year instead of a day. 

The people of Richmond dress much better than 
do the inhabitants of Petersburg. This has apparently 
been the show city of the Rebellion, which has gath- 
ered the richest fruits of blockade-running, and profited 
by them to the utmost. The ladies have no hoops 
nor bonnets, and dress chiefly in black, but not shab- 
bily. Many wear mantillas and capes of silk and sat- 
in of the style of 1860, evidently carefully guarded 
and repaired since then, and kej^t as the very best 
garment for state occasions only. The men are gen- 
erally arrayed in Southern gray fabrics, although some 
venerable prominent citizens are resplendent in broad- 
cloth suits, the gloss and the fashion of which both 
show them to be quite fresh from the hands of a Eu- 
ropean or Northern tailor. 

The only stores open are those of the apothecaries. 
I visited one, the shelves of wliich were well filled 
with most of the articles of a druggist's assortment. 
The proprietor informed me that before the fall of 
Wilmington he had managed to keep his stock uni- 
formly full. Since that event his only reliance was 
the smuggling carried on across the Lower Potomac, 
the trafiic by that means, he said, being immense. 
Some particular articles — as, for instance, sponges — 
are not to be obtained in Richmond at any price. 



232 LETTEES. 

Kichmond is a beautiful city. I think there is none 
in tiie South, and very few in the whole Union, where 
the dwellings of the richest class are built with more 
elegance, richness, and good taste. Of course, nothing 
in the way of construction has been done during the 
war ; but all the upper j^art of the city has been care- 
fully kept in repair, and some of the palatial resi- 
dences of the aristocratic Virginians are as regal in 
their appearance, surroundings, appointments, and fur- 
niture as any in Fifth Avenue or Mount Vernon Street. 
They are not set together too closely for comfort, and 
in their lawns and yards are many fine specimens of 
ornamental gardening. The long summer with which 
the city is blessed has fairly begun ; and while it is yet 
raw and chilly in Boston, and damp and muddy in 
New York, the citizens and the captors of Richmond 
are dwelling in a wealth of blossom and verdure, and 
enjoying the most delightful weather which it ever 
entered into the heart of man to conceive of. 

Of course, the centre of interest for both military 
and civil visitors is at Capitol Square. Here is that 
grand monument to the greatest Virginian in history, 
in itself worth a pilgrimage to see. The spirited bronze 
equestrian statue of Washington by Crawford is the 
pride of Richmond, as a work of art ; and to-day both 
horse and rider seem to be inspired with the conscious- 
ness that from their lofty eminence they look on a 
Virginia at last redeemed, purified of the presence of 
armed traitors, washed in an ocean of j^atriot blood 
clean of the sins which have stained her escutcheon, 
and ready once more to take her place as an equal in 
the nation which this her greatest son founded and so 
dearly loved. On the lesser pedestals of the monu- 
ment Patrick Henry and Thomas Jefferson seem using 
all the arts of fervid eloquence and brilliant j^hiloso- 



RICHMOND. — SENTIMENTS OF THE CITIZENS. 233 

phy to persuade their recreant descendants to return 
once more to the doctrines they taught so well, of the 
sacredness of human rights, and the grandeur of a 
united nationality. 

From the summit of the Capitol, used as such by 
both State and Rebel governments, wave to-day the 
stars and stripes. The steps are thronged with peo- 
ple, — soldiers, black and white, officers of every grade, 
citizens of every class, crowding, on all sorts of busi- 
ness, to the office here established of the j^rovost- 
marshal. On the lower floor of the building is the 
room used by the Rebel House of Rej^resentatives. 
Soldiers are sitting in the Speaker's chair, poking their 
bayonets into the members' desks, searching every- 
where for relics worth carrying North when their ser- 
vice is ended by the return of peace. A small adjoin- 
ing chamber, occupied by the House committee on 
military affiairs, is almost knee deep with papers. 
Autographs of Jefierson Davis and his ministers may 
be picked up by the score. Here are the official re- 
ports of Rebel generals of the campaigns, Eastern 
and Western, of 1862, in a systematically arranged 
manuscrij^t, ready for the printer. Here is the journal 
of the secret sessions of the Rebel Congress during 
the period when the bill arming the slaves was under 
debate. It is the third day of Union occupation ; but 
no measures have been taken to guard or preserve 
these documents ; and next week they will be scattered 
far and wide over the North, beyond the possibility 
of being gathered together again for use or examina- 
tion. 

In the rotunda of the Capitol is a statue of "Wash- 
ington, in marble, seemingly very faithful to the sub- 
ject, with a quaint inscription on the j^edestal showing, 
among other things, that the statue was erected in 



234 LETTERS. 

1788, during the life of the Father of his Country, 
and before the adoption of the Federal Constitution. 
In the chamber occupied by the House of Delegates 
of Virginia are one or two large portraits of State 
heroes. I am told that a picture of General Lee hung 
here last week, and that the Rebels took it with them 
in their retreat. It is certainly gone; but it seems 
more likely that it has found refuge in the private 
house of some of Lee's friends in Richmond. 

In the second story of the Capitol is the State 
Library of Virginia. The room is a very fine one, 
and the collection of books exceedingly valuable. 
They number nearly as many, I should think, as those 
in the Boston Athenseum. In the small room oppo- 
site, a little while ago the chamber of the Confederate 
Senate, sits in Mr. R. M. T. Hunter's chair the act- 
ing provost-marshal of Richmond, Lieutenant-Colonel 
Fred L. Manning, of the Army of the James. A 
motley crowd, numbered by hundreds, throng the 
door, and are let in a few at a time by a sentinel. 
The Colonel attends to their cases at the rate of about 
six a minute. 

There are few more interesting places than the 
provost-marshal's office of a lately captured city. Let 
us listen a moment to what these people have to 
say: — 

" There 's a lot of soldiers taking away my fish, 
and I don't want to sell the fish at all ; and they give 
me this, they say is greenbacks " [holding out an ad- 
vertisement of Plantation Bitters, printed in the guise 
of a bank-note]. " Corporal, take a file of men, and 
arrest these plunderers that this man will show you." 

" I am a soldier in the Rebel army, sir, and wish to 
give myself up." " Sergeant, put this man with the 
others." 



RICHMOND. — SENTIMENTS OF THE CITIZENS. 235 

" I came into the city last Sunday, sir, and have n't 
been able to get home again." " Can't help it, sir ; 
strict orders that no citizen leaves the city to-day. 
To-morrow, perhaps, you may go." 

" My husband is very sick, eight miles down the 
river, sir, and I want to go down to-night." " Cer- 
tainly, madam : here is your pass." 

" Does a newspaper correspondent need a pass to 
go back to City Point ? " " Yes, sir : here it is." 

"A couple of soldiers have taken a lot of jewelry 
from my shop." " When was it ? " " Tuesday morn- 
ing." " Can't go back so far, sir : you should have 
been here yesterday." 

And so on, for fifteen hours of the day. But here 
is a man of a different stamp, — a small, well-formed 
fellow, with a pale skin, full yellow beard, and long, 
light hair. He has Union trousers and a blue blouse 
on, but does not look like an ordinary soldier ; nor is 
he. This is Captain S. S. Grosvenor, of Kingston, 
Canada. Three years ago he engaged in the secret 
service of the United States government, for which 
his tastes and talents fitted him. After much exciting 
and valuable service, in May, 1864, he fell into the 
hands of the Rebels. They put him at first for six 
months in the penitentiary ; then transferred him to 
one of the vilest dungeons of Castle Thunder. The 
prisoners in this place were taken out at about mid- 
night on Sunday, and marched away, under guard, to 
the Danville station. By this time the gutters of the 
city were running with whiskey. A sentinel stopped 
a moment, to scoop up some in his cup, and Grosve- 
nor, seizing the second of opportunity, ran for his life. 
He succeeded in making his escape, concealed him- 
self during the night, and in the morning no man in 
Richmond welcomed the Union troops with a heartier 



236 LETTERS. 

greeting. Captain Grosvenor tells strange stories of 
the Unionism which has been hidden in Richmond, — 
of aid and comfort given him in his prison by friends 
without ; of elaborate attempts to escape, almost ac- 
complished ; of files and saws slipped into his hands, 
even by the sentinel appointed to guard him. The 
garments he wears were given him by Union soldiers, 
who found him almost destitute. He is going to 
"Washington, and has some valuable information for 
the government. 

Leaving the Capitol, we find a band playing exqui- 
sitely in the square in front of the governor's house, 
which is now the head-quarters of General Charles 
Devens, of Massachusetts, who sits on its piazza, listen- 
ing to the music of Union airs, and smiles as he thinks 
of the place and its associations. Well has he, and 
well have all these gallant men in blue coats, earned 
tlie right to take their ease in Richmond. With the 
first Massachusetts men, in Ajiril, 1861, the major 
hastened to the defence of the national capital ; shall 
not the general rejoice, in April, 1865, as he rests in 
the captured capital of the exploded Rebellion, where 
also he and his command were with the first to set 
their feet ? 

We have seen all we shall of the archives of the 
Confederacy in our visit to the Caj^itol. All else was 
burned in Monday morning's fire, — the Post-Ofiice, 
War and Navy Departments, etc. The mansion of 
Jefferson Davis, a stately and comfortable-looking 
edifice, still stands on Marshal Street, and is occupied 
by Major-General Weitzel as his head-quarters. There 
also to-day is President Lincoln. The visit of the 
President to Richmond has been one of the most 
remarkable incidents of the war. Remaining at City 
Point long after the time originally set for his return, 



RICHMOND. — SENTBIENTS OF THE CITIZENS. 237 

he has been most intensely interested in the progress 
of the grand struggle. All General Grant's despatches 
from the front were sent directly on board Mr. Lin- 
coln's steamer, River Queen, and the President was thus 
enabled to watch CA^ery movement of the campaign 
in detail. When General Grant informed him of the 
success of Sheridan on Sunday night, and the proposed 
general movement forward the next morning, it is 
understood that the President himself directed Ad- 
miral Porter to give the aid of the navy by shelling 
vigorously the Rebel batteries which could be reached 
from the Aj^pomattox. When Petersburg fell into 
our hands, the President visited the town during 
Monday; but his main anxiety was to enter Rich- 
mond. I have already detailed the difficulties of the 
trip ; but difficulties and dangers were alike thrust 
aside with vigor, and on Tuesday morning the Presi- 
dent went up the river. He went a part of the way in 
his own steamer, and the rest on Admiral Porter's 
flag-ship Malvern, passing the doubtful spots, from 
whose depths are still extracted enormous torj)edoes, 
without interruption. 

The arrival of the President in the city, as described 
to me here, must have been a curious spectacle. The 
party landed at the Rockets. There was no expecta- 
tion of the visit, or preparation for it in Richmond. 
The wharf was deserted, and a carriage was out of the 
question. So the President had nothing left but to 
walk into town, a distance of about a mile. The pro- 
cession was not large, consisting of Mr. Lincoln, his 
son Tadj who accompanies him everywhere, and Ad- 
miral Porter, one or two other military and naval offi- 
cers, and an enterprising newspaper correspondent, 
whom the crowd undoubtedly took to be Vice-Presi- 
dent Johnson. Mr. Lincoln was soon recognized, but 



238 LETTERS. 

no assassin's pistol was raised against him. Every- 
body seemed curious to see the President. Loud 
shouts told all what was the sensation of the day, and 
the n-owd of black. and white, men and women, soon 
grew to enormous dimensions. Shouting, yelling, 
screaming, pushing, and rushing to get a glimpse, the 
singular procession moved on to the house of Jeff 
Davis, which the President entered in triumph. The 
inhabitants were greatly astonished at the prompt 
appearance of the President, as they did not know of 
his presence at City Point, and inferred that he had 
come from Washington by some mysteriously swift 
conveyance, expressly to visit Richmond. 

Probably no Yankee will ever include this city in 
his pleasure tour in the future without visiting the 
Libby Prison. That famous structure is to-day a de- 
lightful specimen of poetic justice. The dingy old 
tobacco warehouse is there, with its barred windows, 
looking thoroughly commonplace, as it never could 
have looked otherwise. But inside the bars are no 
longer unhappy Union officers, starved and outraged 
in every way. Blue-coated sentinels pace around the 
walls, and the windows frame the sallow faces of gray- 
coated prisoners who last week marched with Lee. 

There is no attempt at retribution. The prisoners 
are not crowded ; they are fed with smoking coffee and 
crisp hard-tack ; and when a Richmond damsel comes 
to comfort her imprisoned sweetheart, he comes to 
the door or window, and the interview is undisturbed. 
IJnion gentlemen have been shot for showing their faces 
at these bars ; but still, the tables are turned, and no 
Northern man can gaze at the Libby Prison to-day 
without a grim smile of satisfaction at the change. 

Only one Richmond pajoer survives the revolution 
ol the week. " The Whig," never very cordial in its 



RICHMOND. — SENTIMENTS OF THE CITIZENS. 239 

support of Jefferson Davis and his policy, appeared 
on Tuesday evening as a Union jiaj^er, the absence of 
the gas making the issue of a morning paper impossi- 
ble. The former proj^rietor continues to manage the 
office, and one of the sub-editors gives his assistance 
in making up the paper. If the loyalty of neither of 
these gentlemen is yet very warm or very vigorous, 
or anything more than the Unionism of expediency, it 
is at least a fair specimen of the best Union senti- 
ment to be found in the South, and is capable of being 
developed into something much better in good time. 
The two papers thus far published have been confined 
mainly to the publication of military orders and the 
narration of local incidents of the week. This even- 
ing's issue announces that hoj^es are entertained of 
securing the services in the editorial department of 
" one of the most brilliant and vigorous writers in 
Virginia," alluding, it is surmised on the streets here, 
to the venerable John Minor Botts. " The Whig " is 
printed on a very dingy little half-sheet, has no new 
advertisements, and copies the war news of Northern 
papers a week old, mistakes, false reports, and all. 

The Richmond Theatre has been closed for a few 
days, but reopens to-night with the manager, Mr. R. 
D'Orsay Ogden, and company, who have occupied it 
for several months past. The play is to be " Don 
Ccesar de Bazan," and President Lincoln and a large 
number of other distinguished personages, including 
even General Grant, fighting fifty miles away on the 
Danville road, " have been invited to attend." 

One does not meet many famous people in Rich- 
mond, except the party which has come in this week. 
Mrs. General Lee, who is an invalid, is li™g quietly 
in her husband's house on the hill. Mr. E. A. Pollard, 
who has some friends in Boston, and is slightly famous 



240 LETTERS. 

as the only Rebel who has thought it worth while to 
attempt a history of the war, swaggers with much 
pomp and bluster about the halls of the Spottswood. 
I met Colonel Lincoln, of the Massachusetts 34th, in 
the Capitol. He was prevented by serious illness 
from accompanying his regiment to the left, and 
marched from hospital to Richmond with the advance 
of General Weitzel's force. 

I have not been able as yet to give a very close 
examination to the fortifications of Richmond, the 
inner line of which is about six miles from the centre 
of the city. It is evident to the most casual observer 
that they are very strong, very elaborately constructed, 
and very hastily abandoned. The Rebels planted their 
forts very thickly with torpedoes, marking their posi- 
tion with little flags for the guidance and safety of 
their own men. These useful signals the Rebel rear- 
guard were too panic-stricken or too stupid to remove, 
so that they still remain, and serve as warnings to our 
men, by the aid of which all danger from explosions 
is very easily avoided. 

The James River, between Varina Landing and 
Richmond, a distance of about ten miles, is a very in- 
teresting and somewhat exciting stream to sail over. 
At the Rockets lie a half-dozen of Admiral Porter's 
gun-boats, officers and men eagerly taking their turns 
of leave of absence to enjoy the sights and pleasures 
of the shore. Then one comes to the Rebel rams and 
gun-boats, lying sunk in the streamj and forming most 
formidable chains of obstructions, which have been 
sufficiently removed by our naval force to allow the 
passage of a steamer. Everywhere are torpedoes. 
Many, including some most formidable ones, have al- 
ready been removed. Others still remain, their where- 
abouts marked to the pilot by buoys placed where 



RICHMOND. — SENTIMENTS OF THE CITIZENS. 241 

our drag-nets have found torpedoes, and bearing little 
red flags to indicate the danger lurking beneath them. 
With all these safeguards, the voyage seems still a 
perilous one, for the boat often barely grazes on each 
side between two of these torpedo-signals, and her 
keel often grates harshly over some sunken iron-clad, 
not quite high enough to interrupt her course. The 
Rebels succeeded in destroying all the Richmond steam- 
ers except one, the flag-of-truce boat, William Allison. 
This boat was sent down the river on Sunday night 
with the last load of prisoners for exchange. Return- 
ing, the captain saw the fires lighting the sky over 
Richmond, and very prudently paused, spent the night 
in the stream, and in the morning reported himself 
and his vessel to the Union authorities. Both have 
ever since been kept busy in the employ of the 
national government. 

About half-way between Richmond and Varina, on 
the right bank of the stream, is Fort Darling, extend- 
ing for a front of about two miles, and perhaps the 
strongest defensive work which either side has erected 
during the present war. In the Revolution there was 
a little redoubt here bearing the name of Fort Dar- 
ling, and the skilful engineers who constructed the 
new work here for the Rebels in 1861 perpetuated the 
singular name. Close under the bluff here are now 
lying the Chippewa, and a number of other Union 
gun-boats, and several monitors of one and two tur- 
rets each. Parties of officers and seamen in boats 
are still busy investigating the secrets hidden in the 
depths of the river, and clearing the channel for the 
use either of war or commerce. 

Perhaps it is not yet too late to give you a concise 
account of what I have been able to gather from all 
sources here in regard to the evacuation and cap- 
11 p 



242 LETTERS. 

ture of the city. I cannot think with many that the 
abandonment of Richmond and Petersburg was a 
deliberate act, decided upon as necessary several 
months ago, and prepared for gradually and carefully 
by Davis and Lee. I see every evidence of haste in 
determining upon and in executing the act, and am 
forced to the conclusion that Lee looked to find in 
the present campaign the victory which he has so 
often won before. Knowing the superior force of our 
armies, he must have relied upon his almost impreg- 
nable position, brilliant and audacious strategy, and 
desperate fighting, to shake ofi" Grant's grip upon 
Petersburg, and hold out through another summer. 

The attack upon Steadman on March 25 — one of 
the most splendid achievements of the whole war — 
would, if its early success had been kept up an hour 
longer, have completely cut our army in two, and 
have raised the siege of Petersburg. Close upon the 
failure, which came so near being a triumph of this 
scheme to astonish the world, came Grant's extension 
of his line to the left. That Lee hoped to win victory 
out of the seeming attenuation of our force by this 
movement seems proved by the vigor and persistency 
with which he defended, during Thursday and Friday 
and Saturday, every portion of his line, strengthening 
his defence at every opportunity by energetic and 
dashing attacks. Still there was no movement for 
the evacuation of his position. Ammunition and ar- 
tillery was moved to the front, and not to the rear, 
and Rebel generals, soldiers, and citizens gained con- 
fidence with every day of indecisive battle. 

The tide turned on Saturday night, when the vic- 
tory of the Five Forks was won. The possession of 
the Southside Railroad by our troops made Petersburg 
untenable. That Grant understood this was made 



RICHMOND. — SENTIMENTS OF THE CITIZENS. 243 

evident by the tremendous cannonade opened all 
along that long line at midnight on Saturday. Then, 
as it seems to me, Lee determined upon the evacua- 
tion, which was made absolutely comj^ulsory by the 
victory of our forces on the left. The fighting on 
Sunday was only to cover the Rebel retreat. Every- 
tliino; was done in haste. The tobacco in Petersburo; 
w^as set on fire on Sunday morning ; but the destruc- 
tion was not made thorough, and enough was left to 
fill the pipe of every Union soldier who passed through 
the city for a month to come. The inhabitants did 
not believe in the evacuation, and went to bed, even 
on Sunday night, feeling secure and confident in the 
ability of Lee to defend the position. ^N^othing was 
taken from the forts; guns, muskets, papers, tents, 
everything was abandoned, as if the greatest haste 
must have prevailed in the last moments. 

In Richmond there was no unusual excitement on 
Sunday morning. Mr. Jefierson Davis was at church, 
his family being absent from the city. There is no 
truth in the story that he had sold his furniture. To 
Mr. Davis, at his devotions, entered an orderly with 
a despatch from General Lee. The Rebel President 
did not attempt to conceal his agitation, but left the 
church immediately, as did other leading citizens. 
Still there was no general alarm, no universal knowl- 
edge of the prosj^ects of the day. Mr. Davis spent 
the afternoon at his own house, and left in the early 
evening by the Danville Railroad. He took little 
with him more than his j^rivate pa^^ers, and the furni- 
ture of his house is as if he had never left it. Little 
efibrt can have been made either to destroy or carry 
away the archives of the ruined government ; and, as 
I have already said, even the most important papers, 
abandoned by both parties as worthless, are blowing 



244 LETTERS. 

about the gutters. During the afternoon the fact that 
the Rebel officials were leaving became noised abroad ; 
and those who were not disposed to remain in the 
city under Yankee rule made every effort to get 
away. Sums which the people here call " astound- 
ing," of "ten or fifteen dollars in gold or Federal 
currency," were offered for vehicles and horses to 
convey the fugitives. The banks were opened in 
spite of the day, and directors and depositors busied 
themselves in getting away their specie. 

With sunset came the head of the Rebel columns 
under Ewell, marching in from the forts and through 
the city toward the west. 'Then and from that it was 
that the great mass of the population of Richmond 
knew that the city was to be given up. It was a 
night of horror and confusion. A committee of 
citizens, appointed at a secret session of the Common 
Council, undertook the destruction of all the liquor in 
the city. Casks and bottles were smashed by the 
thousand; the gutters ran with wine and whiskey, 
and the very air was filled with the fumes of alcohol. 
The Rebel soldiers, as they passed, filled their cups and 
canteens from the rivulets ; many seemed to become 
drunk merely from the smell of the liquor ; and the 
last stragglers, wild with intoxication, outraged and 
pillaged everywhere like a swarm of demons. 

Before General Ewell departed, he ordered the 
burning of the tobacco warehouses on the river-bank. 
Appealing citizens assured him that the only result of 
the fire, with the fresh breeze blowing from the south, 
would be the utter destruction of the city; but the 
brutal old soldier only laughed and swore at their 
remonstrances, and reiterated his orders. The flames 
spread, as was predicted. The two steam-engines 
and two or three hand-machines, worked feebly 



RICHMOND. — SENTIMENTS OF THE CITIZENS. 245 

amid the universal excitement, were of little avail 
against a conflagration extending over scores of acres. 
In an hour, hundreds of the jDoorer families of Rich- 
mond were wandering through the streets without 
shelter, carrying huge bundles of clothing or furniture, 
which to lose sight of was to lose forever. As the 
flames spread, and it became evident that they could 
not be saved, the stores were thrown open, and the 
poor people who had houses left rolled away to them 
barrels of flour and pork enough to provide them for 
months. Plunder was the watchword of the night. 
The grocer entered the bm'ning store of his neighbor, 
and loaded his arms with clothing, only to meet the 
tailor coming out of his own door with his pockets full 
of cofiee and sugar. It was a night which no one in 
Richmond will ever be likely to forget. 

When daybreak came, the last Rebel soldier had 
left the city on the west, and with daybreak entered 
on the east the Union cavalry-men. As far as I 
can learn, a detachment of the Fourth Massachusetts 
Cavalry, under Major Stevens, first made their aip- 
pearance in the city. The firemen, their heads filled 
with horrible stories of the barbarous Yankees, left their 
engines and fled. The Union troopers galloped after, 
brought them back to their duty, and aided them in 
extinguishing the flames. The breeze died away soon 
after sunrise, and the fire was at last providentially 
checked, after having burnt over the immense area 
which I have already described. 

General Weitzel had full information as to the tor- 
pedoes with which the Rebel forts were strewn, and 
was too prudent to lead his men on such gi'ound in 
the darkness. As soon as it was light, our column 
moved forward. The precious Rebel system of flags 
enabled us, by moving slowly and cautiously in single 



246 LETTERS. 

file, to cross the dangerous limits without accident ; 
and then the army marched at full speed for the 
city. The column, headed by a division of white 
troops commanded by General Devens, of Massachu- 
setts, reached Richmond at about eight o'clock. Tlie 
colored troops of the Twenty-fifth Corps followed in 
close order. General "Weitzel established his head- 
quarters in the mansion vacated by Jeff" Davis, and the 
IJnion occupation of the Rebel capital was complete. 



ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN. 

THE TERRIBLE SCENE IN FOEd's THEATRE. 

Washington, Sunday ]\Iorning, April 16. 

Before these lines can reach you by mail, our 
telegraphic despatches will have informed you of all 
the additional particulars which to-day or to-morrow 
may bring out in relation to the event which is the 
only topic of which men can speak or think in Wash- 
ington or in the country this morning. The only pur- 
pose of this letter is to note down some stray fiicts 
of minor importance connected with the conspiracy 
which culminated on Friday night, which are to be 
gathered amid the constant buzz of rumor, gossip, 
canards, and s|)eculations here upon the engrossing 
theme. 

After the first phase of the terrible events which 
have thrown us into mourning has been discussed, — 
the dire and incalculable calamity to the nation, the 
shock given to the dawning hopes of immediate peace 
and reconstruction, the possible and probable result 



ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN. 247 

upon future events, — thought and conversation nat- 
urally revert to the wretched murderer ; and the 
question is asked repeatedly, "What motive could 
have prompted John Wilkes Booth to the commis- 
sion of this foul and most dastardly crime ? " If there 
were a possible or conceivable doubt as to the identity 
of the person who shot Abraham Lincoln, the essen- 
tial improbability of such a man's proving the assassin 
would exculpate him in the minds of many. But 
there can be no shadow of a doubt that it was actually 
he; and so again we wonder and ask one another, 
" What prompted him to do this thing ? " 

Only two exj^lanations of this consummate folly 
combined with consummate villany have been sug- 
gested. One points to the advertisements which have 
appeared in Rebel papers, offering enormous sums for 
the assassination of Union leaders, and says no motive 
but cupidity could have prompted such a conspiracy. 
Another, w4th far more apparent probability, as it 
seems to me, suggests that Booth was a malignant 
Rebel in soul and spirit, putting more heart into his 
copperheadism than other Northern men of similar 
sentiments ; that he had all along felt and expressed 
a confidence that the South would succeed ; that he 
was finally convinced by the events of the last few 
weeks that the end of the Rebellion was approaching 
and inevitable ; that in his blind and fi-antic rage and 
fury at seeing the scheme of the seccessionists bafiled, 
he resolved upon and executed this enormous and yet 
most useless crime simply as revenge. That he could 
secure accomplices for such a purpose seems as im- 
probable as that he himself should be induced to 
embark in a scheme of murder by a bribe, however 
monstrous, — and so, in this hour of excitement, spec- 
ulation halts, and loses itself in perplexity. 



248 LETTERS. 

The brief and momentous scene whicli closed the 
entertainment at Ford's Theatre will never be forgot- 
ten by any one of the thousand or more who saw it. 
The play, with which all were familiar, was progress- 
ing smoothly to its climax. The good acting of Miss 
Keene in part made up for the faults of most of the 
other artists ; the house was crowded ; and the evident 
enjoyment of the party in the "state-box " added to 
the zest with which the mass of the audience entered 
into the sj^irit of the performance. 

The scene was a front flat. There was only one 
character uj^on the stage, Lord Dundreary. Sud- 
denly one of those stuj^id conundrums which we all 
know by heart was interrupted by the sharp rejDort of 
a pistol. The audience had time to wonder what 
new incident of the play was thus heralded, when 
there came another and stranger interruption. A dark, 
lithe form vaulted over the railing of the President's 
box, which was canopied with the American flag. As 
the intruder struck the stage, he fell forward, but soon 
gathered himself up, and turned, erect, in full view of 
the audience. With singular audacity the assassin 
stood there long enough to photograph himself for- 
ever even in the -minds of those among the throng 
who had never seen him before. They saw a slim, 
tall, gi'aceful figure, elegantly clad, waving a dagger 
w^ith a gesture which none but a tragedian by profes- 
sion would have made ; a classic face, pale as marble, 
lighted Tij) by two gleaming eyes, — which had made 
crowds shudder often in past days when Gloster 
struggled with death in mimic frenzy, — and sur- 
mounted by waves of curling, jet-black hair. The 
assassin, with calmness which could only come of care- 
ful premeditation, uttered the words, " Sic semper 
tyrannis ! " in tones so sharp and clear that every per- 



ASSASSINATION OF PEESIDENT LINCOLN. 249 

son in the theatre heard them. He said somethinor 
more ; but in that second of time Mrs. Lincoln had 
screamed in horror, the unusual occurrences had cre- 
ated an excitement, the audience had begun to rise, 
and no one heard the words distinctly. Booth, who 
had already heard his name jDronounced by a score of 
lips, waited for no further bravado, but rushed across 
the stage, by Dundreary, by Florence Trenchard at 
the wing, rudely pushing Miss Keene out of his way, 
down the long passage behind the scenes, thrusting 
his knife at a man who seemed to interrupt his flight, 
and out by the stage door into the darkness. All was 
instantly confusion in front. Both before and behind 
the scenes every one knew that the President had 
been shot. Actors rushed upon the stage, and the 
audience into the orchestra. Mr. Lincoln had sunk 
down without a groan or a struggle. Mrs. Lincoln 
had fainted after her first shriek. Major Rathborn 
was stunned by a stab which Booth's knife had given 
him before the shot was fired ; Miss Harris was bewil- 
dered by the sudden occurrence of she knew not what. 
The audience surged to and fro in frantic excitement. 
Some attempted to climb up the supports and into 
the box. Then came those clear and distinct tones, 
never forgotten by any who have heard them, of Laura 
Keene, first in the theatre to understand and appre- 
ciate the emergency: "Keep quiet in your seats, — 
give him air ! " Li another moment certain gentlemen 
found presence of mind to order the throng to leave 
the theatre. The gas was turned down. The crowd, 
animated at last by an imjDulse, pushed for the outer 
doors. Laura Keene ran around to the scene of the 
murder, and in another moment the bleeding head of 
the dying President lay in the lap of the actress, as 
she endeavored to force a restorative within his pallid 
11* 



250 LETTERS. 

Ii23s. The auditorium was soon empty. Laura Keene's 
benefit was over ; and thus closed the evening at Ford's 
Theatre, which had begun so pleasantly with a comedy, 
in the most terrible tragedy the world ever saw. 



A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 

On the morning of the first day of June, we heard 
that a force of Fenians had crossed the Niagara at 
Buffalo, and taken a small earthwork called Fort 
Erie. During the day, despatches came in announ- 
cing excitement among the Irish population generally, 
and indications of a general movement for the inva- 
sion of Canada among the faction of the Fenians 
adhering to Roberts and Sweeney. Our sagacious 
managing editor soon made up his mind that the New 
England Fenians would make St. Albans a ren- 
dezvous ; at four o'clock I received my orders to hasten 
there at once, and observe events : the business office 
supplied me with a roll of greenbacks for expenses, 
and a bunch of free passes for railroad travel covering 
the whole region between Detroit and Portland ; and 
at half-past five I had left the railroad station bound 
northward. 

My previous knowledge of Fenianism had given 
me the impression that it was little more than a 
swindling scheme for suiDjoorting idle Irish adven- 
turers by contributions from the j^ockets of working 
men and women, who thought they were giving to 
their country. But this journey was to be made 
simply as an impartial observer, for the benefit of the 
newspaper-reading public; and I began it by throw- 



A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 251 

ing aside all prejudices and previously conceived 
opinions on the subject to receive my attention, and 
by forming the determination to mingle no argument 
with the simple narrative of what I saw. Writing 
now for a different public, I shall proceed upon pre- 
cisely the same principle, stating only facts as I saw 
them, and leaving readers to make their own infer- 
ences and arguments. 

I found, upon inquiry of the conductor, that there 
was no party of Fenians upon our train, although 
about three hundred had been taken up the night be- 
fore, and it was said that a battalion of about the 
same strength was on its way by another route, and 
likely to join us at a point near our destination, and 
that tickets had been bought for six hundred for the 
following night, — the majority preferring to close up 
their peaceful labors on Saturday afternoon, and begin 
their fillibustering enterprise with a new week. So I 
wrote a brief despatch with these few facts, mainly to 
show our readers that a correspondent was already on 
his way to the front, put it on the wires at the office 
in the station at Concord, New Hampshire, and in 
due time exchanged my seat for a narroAV, but not un- 
comfortable berth, and slept the sleep of the weary 
while traversing the State of Vermont at the rate of 
thirty miles an hour. 

We were to arrive at St. Albans at six, so I arose 
at five. I learned soon after that several car-loads of 
Fenians had indeed been attached to our train during 
the small hours ; and, desirous to take the earliest op- 
2)ortunity of inspecting the men whose doings I was 
to watch, I passed through one or two cars, and soon 
found myself among them. The three cars they oc- 
cupied were not crowded, the men taking their ease 
on two or three seats each. They were commonplace 



252 LETTERS. 

young Irishmen cnongli, nearly all between eighteen 
and twenty-five years old, evidently from the machine- 
shops of the cities rather than the firms of the rural 
districts, — somewhat sulky, as most men are after 
riding all night on hard seats, but not quarrelsome. 
The most surj^rising element in their manner, to 
my mind, was the general reticence, and absence of 
that flurry and tendency to braggadocio, so common 
among new recruits. A glance at their garments, 
however, was enough to show that those who had not 
seen actual fighting service were few among them, — 
each wearing an overcoat with cape and brass buttons, 
and dark blue blouse, sky-blue trousers, or having 
some other simple remnant of the uniform discarded 
on his discharge from the Union army a year ago. 
There were plenty of army knapsacks and haversacks, 
but no visible weapons of any kind ; nor was there 
any badge or rank to distinguish the officers fi'om the 
rest of the men. 

In due time the train paused at the station of St. 
Albans. Just as we began to slacken speed, we passed, 
stationary on a side track, a long train of baggage- 
cars filled with United States regulars from one of the 
forts in Boston harbor. They had started early in the 
day, on the first receipt of the news of probable 
trouble on the frontier ; had arrived soon after mid- 
night, and were just beginning to stir out of their 
straw, and getting out of their cars in dense clusters, 
like a swarm of bees. The platform of the station 
was covered with men, and to a stranger it was not 
easy to say which were on their way to the machine- 
shops of the village, and had stopped out of curiosity, 
and which were yesterday's arrivals of Fenians. I 
noted that those of my fellow-travellers who seemed 
by their bearing to be superior in rank to the mass, 



A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 253 

were holding whispering conferences with men who 
met them on the platform, and who seemed to be giv- 
ing: orders and information. The train trundled on 
for Montreal; and, declining the vociferous solicita- 
tions of the carriage-drivers, each of whom offered 
" a free ride " as an inducement to j^atronize his par- 
ticular hotel, I strolled to the centre of the village, 
determined to discover the best inn before committing 
myself to the mercies of any. Soon after leaving the 
station, I met men, evidently Fenians, bearing between 
them heavy baskets of smoking loaves, purchased at 
the baker's to provide a breakfast for the hungry re- 
inforcements. 

It Avould be difficult to imagine a more charming 
village than that which had steadily become cele- 
brated as the scene of one of the most audacious raids 
of the late war, and was destined to be the centre of 
interest during the Fenian campaign. About a level 
common, shaded with sturdy hedges, and its green 
expanse brilliant with yellow dandelions, clustered 
three or four churches, an academy, a court-house, — 
all plain and modest brick and wooden buildings, — 
a dozen shops for the sale of boots and shoes, dry- 
goods and groceries, the dwellings of the wealthier 
citizens, and one building which it was not difficult to 
see was the hotel. 

My character of correspondent being known, I was 
introduced before, during, and after breakfast, to quite 
a number of gentlemen as " officers of the Fenian 
army," all of whom proved more or less confidential 
as to the less obvious features of the existing state of 
affairs, and the probabilities of the future. I soon 
found, however, that much of the information so pro- 
fusely volunteered by these gentlemen was untrust- 
worthy, and intended to deceive rather than to en- 



254 LETTERS. 

lighten the public. The first whose acquaintance I 
made was introduced as Colonel Brown, an Irishman 
of education, a lawyer in Charlestown, Massachusetts, 
in small practice ; he had served successively as private 
soldier and captain in the Union army during the late 
war ; he held the position of lieutenant-colonel and 
inspector-general in the Fenian army ; and he was in- 
trusted with the all-important duties of getting the 
arms and ammunition of war into the hands of men. 

Colonel Brown was such a man as I might have ex- 
pected to find organizing and leading this exceptional 
invasion ; but not so another gentleman who obtained 
an introduction to me soon after for the purpose of 
asking me to keep his name out of print. I never men- 
tioned him in my correspondence from the field, and 

here will designate him as Colonel R , the mihtary 

title being his by right of gallant and honorable service 
in the army of the Potomac, at the head of a regiment 
from my own State. I knew him by repute at home 
both as gentleman and soldier, and found it hard to 
account for his presence at the Fenian headquarters. 
An American by birth and parentage, of one of the old 
Massachusetts families, with a brilliant record, and for- 
tune of his own, and a family to share the stain of the 
ignominious failure which seemed certain even at the 
outset, it appeared that he had everything to lose 
and nothing to gain by joining in such a movement. 
His own conversation gave little clew to the mystery ; 
he simply remarked that he was at St. Alban's as an 
observer, ready, if an actual campaign should ensue, to 
give his aid to the weakest side, but anxious to avoid 
the ridicule of his friends if the afiair should turn out 
Si mere ^fiasco, like that of a few months before at East- 
port, and therefore desirous to keep his name out of 
the i^apers. I soon learned that he held a commission 



A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 255 

from the Fenian Senate, and shared in the councils of 
war of the leaders at St. Albans; and it was not long 
before he threw off all disguise, and spoke freely of 
" our enterprise " and " my regiment." The only ex- 
planation of his share in the scheme which my obser- 
vation can suggest is, that his experience of fighting 
in Virginia had so infatuated him with the exciting 
joys of a martial life, that he was ready to join even a 
wild fiUibustering project for the sake of renewing the 
pleasures of hardship, adventure, combat, and com- 
mand. 

Although I was not then introduced to him, I had 
frequent opportunities of seeing the commander of the 
Fenian right wing, General Spear, who had apartments 
at a neighboring and inferior hotel. He was a man 
of fifty, with the bearing of a veteran soldier and the 
manners of a kindly gentleman, tall, stout, with gray 
hair which had been red, weather-beaten features, and 
mustache and imperial of a military cut. He had 

appeared, with Brown, R , and a few others, at the 

village inns the day before, simultaneously with the 
arrival by the train from Boston of the first battalion 
of Fenians. When visited officially by the municipal 
authorities, he had jocosely remarked that he was 
" travelling for his health," but to private callers had 
not hesitated to avow himself in his true character. 

Of course I acquainted myself as rapidly as possible 
with the state of affairs, — visited the local newspaper 
office ; talked with leading citizens, prominent Feni- 
ans, and United States officials ; heard some entertain- 
ing reminiscences of the St. Albans Riot of 1864, of 
which the citizens were fond of talking ; and obtained 
all accessible facts as to the history of the Fenian 
invasion thus far. These were simply that the fore- 
man of the gas-works had been receiving for several 



256 LETTEES. 

clays, by express, packages which, as he was known to 
be a Fenian, were now deemed to contain arms ; that 
on the morning before, simultaneously with the cross- 
ing at Buffalo, two or three hundred Fenians had ar- 
rived in town ; that during the afternoon these had 
quietly departed, as was supposed, to Fairfield, an 
Irish settlement about five miles to the eastward, where 
shelter and food were given them by the inhabitants; 
that the ofiicers remained at the hotels, spending 
money freely, and appearing to have their pockets full ; 
and that the train on which I arrived had brought 
several cases of muskets and sabres, which were 
promptly seized by the United States officials on the 
watch for them, and sent back by the next train to 
Burlington, greatly to the disgust of the Fenians, who 
were consulting the village lawyers as to the possibility 
of regaining their weapons by civil process. I heard 
also that the United States regulars who arrived just 
before me proceeded soon after to the frontier at 
Swanton, where the railroad crosses the boundary, 
leaving only a small company for guard duty at St. 
Albans. 

Precisely at noon, the train from Montreal bound 
for Boston passed through. I noticed General Spear 
and Colonel Brown in close conversation at the sta- 
tion, and observed that the latter officer wrote a hasty 
note on a leaf torn from his pocket-book, which he 
gave to a young Fenian, whom I took for an orderly, 
but learned later to be a major, and who took passage 
in the train southward. 

At six I was at the station, and mingling with 
the motley crowd of curious citizens, shabby Fe- 
nians, busy employes of the line, bustling United 
States officials, grim soldiers guarding piles of confis- 
cated arms, and waiting travellers, which filled the 



A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 257 

platform. I chatted as we waited, pacing up and 
down with the Fenian Colonel Brown ; and conld not 
help noticing a tendency on his part to linger and de- 
lay at the southern end of the platform, from which 
the expected train might first be seen. At length the 
harsh whistle gave warning of its approach ; and we 
stood — Colonel Brown, another correspondent, and I 
— at the lower end of the platform, as the locomotive 
came in sight around a curve about half a mile dis- 
tant. From the baggage-car there tumbled, suddenly, 
while the train was yet going at full speed, a long 
brown object. 

" A man killed ! " exclaimed my fellow-journalist. 
" Not a bit of it," responded Brown, as another long 
box and a plump bale followed the first, and a dozen 
men leaped, regardless of risk to life and limb, from 
the cars, and hurried away the baggage which had 
been thrown overboard. There was no mystery about 
this to us who saw it. The messenger sent south by 
the down train had borne warning of the vigilance 
of the United States ofiicials, and a hint to the up- 
ward-bound Fenians as to how to evade it, which had 
been skilfully acted upon. 

" I wish to Heaven there were five hundred muskets 
instead of those two boxes!" said Colonel Brown, 
under his breath, as he clapped his hands with delight 
that his orders had been obeyed so shrewdly; and 
then I knew that even the small force yet assembled 
was not provided with arms, and that I should not 
miss a forward movement by a two days' stay in 
Montreal. The train came to a stop at the station ; 
the honest old marshal proceeded to search the freight- 
cars for articles contraband of war ; a hundred Fe- 
nians or so left the cars, and mingled with the crowd, 
on the platform. 

Q 



258 LETTERS. 

I passed at Swanton the white tents just pitched 
of the battalion of United States regulars ; passed 
Rouse's Point just as the sun was setting on one of 
the loveliest lakes in the world ; passed at St. John's — 
there it was too dark to see them — the camps of the 
Canadian volunteers, who flocked to the station to hear 
the news, and were garrulous with absurd stories of the 
numbers and bloodthirstiness of the Fenians cross- 
ing the border ; passed with deafening and long pro- 
tracted rumble through the blacker darkness of the Vic- 
toria Bridge ; passed, as I wearily threaded the streets 
of Montreal soon after midnight, dozens of newsboys 
still selling extras of the morning papers with con- 
fused news from Ridgeway of the battle of the morn- 
ing; passed little knots of people standing in door- 
ways, regardless of the hour, to compare opinions as 
to the invasion ; and made my way with tired haste 
to the bedroom assigned me at the principal inn of 
the city, St. Lawrence Hall. 

I have said that there was very great excitement in 
Montreal. There was nothing like panic there, how- 
ever ; or perhaps I arrived too late for that, for every 
successive despatch which came in from the west on 
Sunday brought new assurance that the invaders had 
lost their foothold on the Niagara frontier, and the 
opinion hourly gained ground that the danger was 
entirely at an end. There seemed to be great una- 
nimity of enthusiasm in rallying to the common defence, 
and the only Fenian demonstration I saw during the 
day was made by two crazy-looking Irishmen, who 
growled out their sympathies audibly, and were only 
saved from summary vengeance at the popular hands 
by the interposition of the joolice, who hustled them 
off to jail. The volunteer companies which came out 
on parade were finely drilled, and made an excellent 



A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 259 

appearance in their bright, clean nnifoi-ms. Monday 
brought no fresh news from any quarter ; the excite- 
ment died away into dulness ; a drenching rain pre- 
vented any sight-seeing expedition ; and at length I 
determined to return to St. Albans, to see whether 
my sanguine Fenian friends had indeed abandoned all 
hope on the failure of their first body, and begun to 
scatter for home. I left Montreal at three, caught a 
glimpse in passing of the wet but cheerful militiamen 
in bivouac at St. John's, and arrived at St. Albans 
again at about seven o'clock. 

The excitement there was very far from being over, 
and the village presented an animated scene worth tak- 
ing a long ride to see. The force of regulars had been 
very largely increased, so that their encampment now 
quite covered the common ; and a fine brass band ac- 
companied the battalion, and was playing popular airs 
to a large assembly of citizens, soldiers, and Fenians. 
" The Wearing of the Green " appeared to be espe- 
cially in favor with the mixed audience, and was ap- 
plauded to the echo. Fellow-correspondents who had 
remained in the town informed me that several bat- 
talions of Fenians had arrived since my departure, 
that the number now at Fairfield was estimated at 
from one to two thousand, that no special incident 
had yet occurred, and that a movement of some kind 
was to be made that very night. 

I soon ascertained that the movement was simply a 
transfer of the hungry Fenians from Fairfield, which 
they had entirely eaten out, to a point called East 
Highgate, nearer the border. I learned also that dis- 
content and impatience had begun to appear among 
the men, and that a council of war had been held at 
one of the St. Albans hotels, at which the abandon- 
ment of the entei-prise had been discussed, but its 



260 LETTERS. 

prosecution to tlie bitter end decided upon. The next 
day, however, seemed to be one of great uncertainty. 
It was generally stated that General Spear purposed 
to go out to the bivouac with his officers, and make 
an immediate movement into Canada. Finding that 
he had engaged horses and wagons to convey him to 
the border, I also engaged a team with the intent to 
accompany the invasion ; but hour after hour passed 
away without a departure, and it became evident that 
somebody or something was still waited for. 

I improved the time by conversing with Fenian 
officers, who grew communicative as the hour for ac- 
tion drew near. They told me that the plan of the 
campaign contemplated a simultaneous movement 
upon Canada at several points, by an army — well 
organized, drilled, armed, and fully supplied with am- 
munition — of fifty thousand men. The right wing, 
under General Spear, moving from St. Albans, was 
to consist of thirteen thousand. The immediate ob- 
jective point was Montreal; the ultimate object, 
the possession of the whole of Canada. Fenian offi- 
cers had traversed the whole country within two 
months, most accurate and minute plans and charts 
had been made, soundings of all rivers had been re- 
corded, secret organizations throughout Canada were 
ready to respond to the first call from the proper 
quarter. Reliance was to be made ui^on the country 
for horses and for supplies. The full number of men 
were ready for the fray; money was plenty in the 
treasury ; arms and ammunition had been purchased. 
Only a few weapons had been sent to the frontier in 
advance, no interference on the part of the national 
authorities with the transportation being looked for ; 
and so the prompt action of the officials, in seizing 
arms at the first sound of trouble, had thrown every- 



A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 261 

thing into confusion. IN'o amount of strategy had 
been able to bring through any considerable amount 
of arms ; the movement of men had consequently been 
stopped, and the men already arrived were clamor- 
ous for action. It was imj^ossible to feed them on 
American soil ; and a movement into Canada, for only 
a short distance, was probable, on the ground that the 
men would be safer from molestation there, more con- 
tented, and could supj^ly themselves with food with- 
out the trouble of j^aying for it. No movement of 
more than a few miles would be made until arms, 
ammunition, and reinforcements came up. 

This, and much more than this, was told me by 
Fenian officers ; but I have only set down here what 
was said in all sincerity, and what I believe to be 
trustworthy. Tuesday, as I have said, had no spe- 
cial excitement. Every train brought Fenians, regu- 
lar soldiers, newspaper correspondents, and Montreal 
papers with " reliable accounts from St. Albans " to 
the effect that the force near there consisted of five 
thousand well-armed men. Officers of Sweeney's staff 
began to arrive singly and in coujdIcs, among them 
Lieutenant-Colonel Tresilyan, an accomplished engi- 
neer officer, who marched to the sea with Sherman; 
Colonel Rundell, chief of ordnance, who served, I be- 
lieve, with John Morgan, the confederate raider ; and 
other men of military experience and rejDutation, whose 
presence on such an errand it was hard to explain on 
any consistent theory. 

By the evening train from the westward came the 
arch fillibuster. General Sweeney himself, and at once 
the excitement began to rise again. The commander 
stopped at the Weldon House, and his every movement 
between his chamber and the dining-room Avas watched 
by curious throngs. Sweeney had the air, features, 



262 LETTEES. 

and dress of a revolutionary conspirator, — a tall, grave 
man, with long, black hair, speculative eyes, dignified 
and reserved, and wearing an army hat and a coat 
covered with frogs and cording. Plis room was the 
scene of a protracted council of war during the evening. 

The next morning, Wednesday, June 6, it was 
evident that something was to be done. Fenian offi- 
cers bustled to and fro between the hotels with unu- 
sual activity; and, as the day wore on, many of them 
discarded the rather shabby black and gray garments 
they had worn hitherto, and appeared in bright blue 
coats and waistcoats with brass buttons, — the relics 
of their service in the South. Teams were again 
engaged at the stables to convey the officers to the 

line ; and my friend Colonel R informing me that 

a movement this time was certain, he and I jointly 
secured a horse and covered carriage, and, joacking 
under the seat his pistols, his luggage, and a bundle 
of sandwiches for our mutual refreshment, set out at 
about three o'clock in what we both pronounced the 
most comfortable manner, for a warlike expedition, in 
our experience. 

As we hurried to overtake the army, passing small 
squads of cheerful Fenians moving up, and about equal 
numbers of disconsolate Fenians moving down, a sav- 
age storm, such as only mountain regions know, burst 
over our heads. The roads were execrable ; we were 
constantly fording torrents ; our carriage was no pro- 
tection ; and we were soon both wet to the skin. 
Every house, barn, and shed sheltered scores of Fe- 
nians, who had been driven from the road by the rain 
to the nearest cover. Determined to reach headquar- 
ters before coming to a halt, we in^ged our cowering 
horse through the drenching storm for more than an 
hour, the number of forlorn invaders whom we passed 



A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 263 

growing greater with every mile we rode. At last we 
reached the village of Franklin, fourteen miles north- 
east of St. Albans, two miles south of the Canadian 
border, twelve miles east of the railroad. Here, at a 
little rustic hotel. General Mahan had established the 
headquarters of the Irish Republic for the night ; and 
here we consigned our reeking horse to the care of 
the stable-boy, and did our best to make ourselves 
comfortable in spite of our soaked condition. 

Brigadier-General John W. Mahan, commanding, 
for the present, the invading column, was a round, 
florid little Irishman, perhaps thirty years old, with 
tightly curling black hair, smooth, rosy cheeks, and 
a crisp little mustache. He had served as major in a 
Massachusetts Irish regiment, and owed his commis- 
sion there and his present high position, not to any 
military ability, but to a certain taking way with the 
lower classes, — a gift of blarney, which commanded 
the affections of his countrymen in Boston, gave him 
much influence in an Irish ward, and elected him 
twice to the Legislature. He was a regular speaker 
at Democratic mass-meetings where the Hibernian ele- 
ment was to be won over, and prominent in the move- 
ment for making eight hours a legal day's work. In his 
present place he was liked by most of the men, and 
held in hearty contempt by many of the officers, who 
considered a local politician out of place commanding 
cultivated veteran soldiers. He had more enthusiasm 
for " the cause " than any of them, however, and re- 
tained it longer. 

About one half the Fenians who were swarming 
about Franklin, and wdio began, as the rain ceased, to 
come out of their covers, were armed, some with mus- 
kets with long, gleaming bayonets, others with breech- 
loading carbines, some with sabres only, some with 



264 LETTEES. 

revolvers only. The officers very generally carried re- 
volvers at their waists. The spirits of the men rose 
visibly as they came near the Canada border and 
were permitted to brandish their weaijons oj^enly, and 
the prevailing tone among them was that of cheerful- 
ness; while the officers, though they strove to keep 
merry countenances, became more and more despond- 
ent as they saw the lack of arms, and as the state- 
ment circulated that not more than one or two pounds 
of ammunition per man had yet been provided. 

I visited the village stores to procure some ink for 
the evening's writing ; and, chatting with the assem- 
bled townsmen, found they did not extend to the 
Fenians the sympathy I had noted at St. Albans. 
They said they were connected, by every tie of family, 
business, and social relationship, with their neighbors 
over the border; they knew that trouble would follow 
this wild and foolish invasion ; and they wondered 
that the government was about to permit these men 
to march through their streets, boldly displaying 
their weapons, and avowing their intentions to make 
war upon a friendly people. 

By prompt action Colonel R had secured a 

room, the landlord's own apartment, for our joint 
lodging; and he being anxious to sleep, and I to 
write, we ensconced ourselves in it quite early. We 
had one visitor during the evening, who deserves 
special mention, — a bit of romance flashing in upon 
the prosaic absurdity of the Fenian campaign like a 

comet. Colonel R introduced him as Colonel 

Contri, commanding the cavalry in the advance, and 
I remember having heard of him as a foreign officer 
who served under Stewart and Ashby, as leader of a 
regiment in the war of Secession. He was a small, 
lithe fellow, of graceful movements, and handsome 



A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 265 

Italian face, with pathetic, liquid eyes and pale com- 
plexion. His taste for the picturesque was manifest 
in his costume, which consisted of enormous jack-boots 
reaching to his hips, loose gray velveteen trousers, a 
braided hussar's jacket of dark blue, a jaunty fatigue 
cap, a green sash as a Fenian badge, and a belt brist- 
ling with two large revolvers and a clanking sabre. 
In appearance the brigand of the poets, his record is 
brimful of adventure and revolution. He cannot be 
more than twenty-eight years old, yet he has fought 
with Garibaldi in half-a-dozen campaigns, and held a 
responsible position in the army which liberated Sicily 
in 1859; he galloped and fought all over Virginia, 
on the losing side, between 1861 and 1865; he was at 
the head of the advance-guard of this most forlorn 
of forlorn hopes, the Irish Republican army; and I 
presume at this writing he is hastening across the 
Atlantic to aid his old leader in liberating Venetia. 
Carefully closing the door behind him, he inquired 

of R •:' 

" Tell me truly, — I make all sorts of stories for my 
men, of course, — tell me truly, how are matters 
going at the west ? " 

He was given a brief account of the results of 
the affair at Fort Erie ; remarked that he very 
much thought this invasion would come to a like 
conclusion ; casually stated that he was " cleared out," 
having expended his last fifty dollars the previous day 
to obtain a ration for his regiment, which was ready to 
mutiny from starvation ; seated himself at my table to 
scribble a note to his sweetheart or wife ; and dashed 
me off, as he wrote, in j^iquant broken English, the 
history of the campaign of 1859, when Garabaldi rode 
a mule, and the rest of the officers of the army made 
their marches on foot. 

12 



266 LETTERS. 

Knowing my character of correspondent, Colonel 
Contri gave me the latest news from the front. " My 
regiment is in some ferns about half a mile from the 
frontier : we wait for orders. I have sent one lieutenant 
and six men across the boundary with these orders : to 
observe the country; to send one man back, if anything 
happens, to tell me ; and to come back in the morning, 
all mounted, and with one best horse for myself. 

Thus the invasion of Canada began. The Colonel, 
disdaining to avail himself of the comforts of the hotel, 
clattered down the stairs, and trudged through the 
mud back to his own men ; and looking out to light 
him down, I saw the corners of the passage-ways filled 
with straw to accommodate snoring Fenians, and soon 
after sought slumber myself. 

I expected an immediate order for a general move- 
ment into Canada, but none came ; and I was informed 
that General Spear's arrival was waited for. During 
the delay, men who had sj^ent the night in the barns 
south of the village were constantly passing through 
to join the Fenian main body, a short distance north. 
At about nine o'clock a double wagon from the St. 
Albans livery-stable drove up, bringing General Spear 
and several staff ofiicers, all wearing side arms. Gen- 
eral Spear had bruised a finger, and bathed it with 
liniment while he stayed at the hotel, but gave the 
order at once, upon his arrival, for the " right wing," 
composing his command, to move " forward into the 
enemy's country." A staff ofiicer stated, in answer to 
my inquiries, that there was nothing new at St. Al- 
bans ; and that the party had left there before day- 
break, and had been delayed by frequent halts to 
cheer on the loiterers by the way. General Spear 
seemed very uneasy during the half-hour spent at 
Franklin, and dejectedly said, "Let us get into Canada : 



A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 267 

then I shall be comfortable." Just as the teams for 
the conveyance of the generals were brought to the 
door, the glitter of bayonets became visible, a few 
hundred yards distant on the road to the southward ; 
a rumor was started of the coming of United States 
troops to intercept the movement ; Generals Spear and 
Mahan drove off at a rapid pace to the border ; and 

Colonel R ran to our room, and hammered at the 

door for admission to get rid of his criminating pistols. 
I was not there, however; and before I could be found 
the new-comers had proved to be an unusually well 
armed party of Fenians, and the first 2:)anic had sub- 
sided. 

About half an hour after the departure of the com- 
manders, our horse was harnessed, and Colonel R ■ 

and I again started with our faces to the northward. 
A guide-post a short distance beyond Franklin bore 
the single word, " Canada," and seemed to be ac- 
cepted by ofiicers and men as a cheering omen. The 
road was full of Fenians, an increasing proportion 
of them armed as we got nearer the front. There 
were also many citizens of Vermont, actuated only 
by curiosity, going on foot and in carts to the border 
to see the crossing. The whole, albeit, seemed so 
exquisitely absurd, and our own method of convey- 
ance — going to war in a covered carriage — so appro- 
priately incongruous, that the spirits of my companion 
were raised by the contemplation, and we laughed 
and jested over the ludicrous aspect of affairs right 
merrily. By a barn, a hundred yards south of the 
boundary, were grouped around some pots and kettles 
the hundred men, with a dozen carbines, who con- 
stituted Colonel R 's cavalry regiment. The 

officer in command explained, in answer to the 
Colonel's inquiry, that some sheep had been captured 



268 LETTERS. 

just across the line, and bronght back to this point 

to be cooked and eaten. Colonel R ordered his 

men to hurry forward as soon as their meal was fin- 
ished, and secure horses from the Canadian farmers as 
soon as possible. And then we left them, and drove 
into Canada. 

About an old, deserted mill were clustered half-a- 
dozen small farm-houses, barns, and sheds. Close in 
front of one building, in the centre of the settle- 
ment, was jolanted in the earth an iron post, originally 
upright, but wrested by the frosts of many winters 
several degrees from the perpendicular, and inscribed, 
" Washington Treaty, 1815." This was all that 
marked the dividing line betw^een two countries. 
South of this were halted the Vermont spectators, 
and the wagons which had brought the generals of 
the invading force from St. Albans, — the drivers 
having received instructions from the stable-keepers 
on no account to cross the line. At the line the road 
was guarded, for what purpose I know not, by an 
armed picket of Fenians. The Irish army, which I 
now saw for the first time in its entirety, w^as filing 
ofi* the road into the meadows and orchards on either 
side, and going into bivouac. The different regiments 
marched each as a distinct body, in close column. I 
estimated the whole number at between one thousand 
and twelve hundred men, about half of them armed. 
A detachment were carrying on their shoulders across 
the boundary and up " to the front," about half a mile 
further on, the w^ooden boxes containing ammunition 
which had been secreted near by. Before a small 
house, about ten rods north of the line, floated a green 
flag ; and to this, confident that the presence of a 
Fenian in my company would insure the safety of my 
horse, I drove the only team which crossed from Ver- 
mont into Canada during the Fenian invasion. 



A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 269 

The house proved to be Colonel Contri's head- 
quarters ; the flag, that of his regiment, gilded with 
the harp and sun-burst, the motto " Va3 Victis," and 
the information that it was a gift " from the ladies " 
(meaning the Irish servant-girls) " of Maiden, Massa- 
chusetts." Contri himself was busy disengaging a 
horse — a great improvement on his first capture — 
from the buggy of an astonished rustic, who had sup- 
posed himself to be the owner of it, and saddling and 
bridling the steed for his own riding. The horse was 
quite as much bewildered as his owner, and kicked 
and plunged, when j^ressed by a kind of harness to 
which he was unused, in a way which would have un- 
seated any but an accomplished rider. The Colonel, 
however, soon obtained the mastery, and, shouting 
to me that he had taken one prisoner, galloped off to 
resume his place at the head of the advance. 

The 23risoner proved to be a gray-headed old citizen, 
who had been found wearing a military overcoat, and 
so taken into custody. He was guarded very closely 
by a heavily armed and self-important sentry, but 
retained his coolness, and informed me that the gar- 
ment which had got him into trouble was a coat 
which had been discarded by a Canadian militiaman 
of the force which two days before had retired from 
St. Armand, leaving this vicinity empty of troops for a 
distance of twenty miles. The residents in the house 
were also taking events with wonderful composure, 
and busy cooking dinner for their visitors. 

The general head-quarters, I was told, were in a 
red house plainly visible, about half a mile north of 

the frontier. I left my horse with Colonel R , 

and visited this point on foot, meeting on the way an 
enthusiastic Fenian, who announced to his comrades 
that a reward of one hundred dollars had been offered 



270 LETTERS. 

to the captor of the first of the enemy's flags. At 
head-quarters — where also the inhabitants were busy 
cooking dinner for their guests — sat Generals Spear 
and Mahan, amid a heap of flags, field-glasses, maj^s, 
pistols, whiskey-flasks, sabres, and other military sur- 
roundings. General Mahan wished me to say to the 
2)ublic that " the army was in Canada, and the word 
was Montreal." General Spear informed me that 
scouting parties, with the half-dozen horses captured 
thus far, were scouring the country for more horses, 
and that he should in a short time resume the north- 
ward march, and sent a message to Colonel Brown, 
urging the hurrying forward of arms, shot, and am- 
munition ; while a Hibernian stafi* oflicer took me 
aside, and told me, confidentially, that he was the 
person who had oflered the reward just mentioned, 
and that he wished his name and rank given correctly 
in the papers. 

Feeling sure that events were over for the day, I 
delayed no longer in Canada, but returned to my 

team, bade farewell to Colonel R , and drove as 

rapidly as possible back to St. Albans to send my 
despatches. 

The twenty-four hours during which I had been 
absent had wrought a great change at the base of 
supplies. Fenians were invisible, and Fenian sym- 
pathizers beginning to change their tone very notably. 
I soon learned that at midnight a file of United States 
soldiers had arrested General Sweeney, in his room at 
the Weldon House, where he still remained, with his 
adjutant, in close military custody; that a similar de- 
scent had been made upon General Spear's room at 
the Tremont House, that oflicer only escaping by way 
of the roof, and injuring his hand while clambering 
down; that the number of regular troops on the 



A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 271 

green had been increased by new arrivals ; and that 
the President had issued a proclamation, posted all 
about St. Albans, directing the rigid enforcement of 
the neutrality laws. 

While writing my despatches at the telegraph 
office, I observed a number of Fenian officers and 
men taking their places in a very quiet and unobtru- 
sive manner in the train bound south, and knew that 
the rats had already begun to quit the sinking ship. 
Among the departures were two of the ablest officers 
of Sweeney's staff, Americans and experienced soldiers 
both, whom I had seen at Franklin in the morning. 
They could not be going south with orders fi*om their 
commander ; for at the door of his room was posted a 
strong guard of regulars, with orders to permit neither 
egress nor ingTess, nor communication of any kind 
with the prisoner. 

The next day I did not go the front, but remained 
at St. Albans, relying upon receiving the news by the 
arrivals of every hour or two. The United States Com- 
missioner from Burlington arrived during the morning, 
and an examination of General Sweeney took place, at 
which representatives of the press were not admitted. 
We were informed at its close that the General's bail 
had been fixed at twenty thousand dollars ; that he 
had telegraphed to Roberts at ISTew York (not being 
aware of that person's arrest) to send up bondsmen ; 
and that until their arrival he would be held, as 
before, in strict military custody. The United States 
Marshal received a despatch from a deputy at Bur- 
lington, announcing the discovery there of a car-load 
of ammunition, and replied by telegraph, ordering its 
immediate seizure. The forenoon had no other in- 
cidents. 

The news which reached us from the army across the 



272 LETTERS. 

border confirmed my expectation that there would be 
little worth recording there. Each successive arrival 
reported that head-quarters remained where I had 
left them, in the Eckles House, within gunshot of the 
boundary; that foraging parties, sent out without 
organization or system, were ravaging the country, 
stealing all they could lay their hands on ; that one 
of these parties had fired a few shots at a mounted 
picket at Frelisburgh, about four miles in the in- 
terior ; that they had found a flag in the custom-house 
there, and hung it before head-quarters "the green 
above the red ; " and that the men were losing their 
confidence in the campaign, and beginning to return 
in couples and squads. 

Later in the afternoon Colonel Brown returned 
from a visit to the front, and boldly hung from his 
window in the Tremont House, for public inspection, 
a large red flag, with the red cross of St. George in 
the corner. Calling on him to obtain the news, I 
assured him that such foolish bravado would result in 
his immediate arrest; and the trophy was immediately 
pulled into the room. Several Irishmen who were 
there begged pieces of it, which were torn oflT and 
given them. Brown spoke cheerfully of the aspect 
of affairs, and said, so far fi-om its being difficult to 
communicate with Sweeney, he himself had spent 
half an hour with him the night before. He had 
passed the sleeping officer of the guard and the 
wakeful but sympathizing sentries without difficulty, 
had borne his chief the latest news, and had received 
from him advice and money. The officer awoke when 
he left the room, but proved to be an old friend, and 
said nothing about the matter. 

Soon after this, on my way to the telegraph office, 
I met a correspondent of a Canadian newspaper, — the 



A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 273 

only one at St. Albans, — who introduced himself, and 
begged to share my conveyance to the front next day. 
We fraternized at once, as jom-nalists on such missions 
will, and I promised to carry him to the line and 
across the line, presenting him to the Fenian com- 
manders if necessary, under an assumed name, as the 
delegate of a New York j^aper. He invited me to 
his room at the Weldon House ; and I was surprised, 
on reaching the apartment, to find that it was, not only 
next door to the quarters of General Sweeney, still 
rigidly guarded by a platoon of soldiers, but that an 
orifice, intended originally for the 2:)assage of a stove- 
pipe, pierced the partition wall between the two 
rooms. It was close to the ceiling, and we could hear 
through it only a low murmur of voices, evidently 
those of General Sweeney and Colonel Meehan, his 
fellow-prisoner and adjutant-general. I arranged with 
my Canadian comrade for an early departure for the 
field the next morning, and promised to call on 
Colonel Brown for something in the nature of a 
safeguard, to insure us from the loss of our horse 
at the hands of strolling Fenians. When we left the 
room I observed that my friend did not lock his door, 
and was informed that he had never been j^rovided 
with a key. 

When I called at the room where, two hours before, 
I had left Colonel Brown at the Tremont House, the 
Hibernian inmates informed me that they knew noth- 
ing at all of his whereabouts ; but when I stated my 
errand, assuring them confidentially that it was " all 
right," and insisting firmly that I must see him, one 
of them went off for instructions, and, returning, con- 
ducted me to a little room in an obscure corner of the 
house, where the Colonel was in hiding from the ex- 
pected officers of the law. He was writing by the 

12* R 



274 LETTERS. 

flaring light of a little fluid lamp a note which, when 
completed, he read aloud to me. I took, of course, 
no notes ; but as nearly as I can remember the epistle 
ran as follows : ■ — 

" St. Albans, June 8. 
" General Speae : I find matters here dark in- 
deed. The ammunition upon which we depended 
so much has been seized to-day at Burlington. The 
men who have deserted are sent home free by the 
United States government, on signing a pledge to 
abandon Fenianism forever. It is now impossible 
to communicate with General Sweeney, as the guard 
over him has been doubled, and nothing can be done 
with the ofiicers. It seems to me that there must be 
brains enough in this movement to devise an honor- 
able and brilliant mode of leaving Canada, if, indeed, 
nothing better remains. In whatever is decided upon 
by yourself, you will find a faithful and devoted as- 
sistant in 

"John H. Beown." 

"I can communicate with General Sweeney," said 
I, when the reading was concluded. " Write whatever 
you wish to say to him, and I will answer for the im- 
mediate delivery of the letter." 

Colonel Brown wished an explanation of the means 
at my disposal, which I gave him ; on reflection, he 
said he would send nothing to the prisoner that night, 
as he had only gloomy tidings to tell ; but while he 
wrote the pass which was the object of my call, a 
messenger entered, who, it seemed, had previously 
been intrusted with a letter or report to Sweeney 
fi-om Spear. He had endeavored to get this into the 
hands of the former by the agency of the sympathiz- 
ing servant-girls who carried him his meals, but had 



A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 275 

been unable to accomplish it, owing to tbe vigilance 
of the guard ; and so the document was given to me. 
The i:)aper which was given me as a safeguard may- 
have some interest to the reader. I have preserved it 
as a relic, and here it is : — 

" St. Albans, June 8, 1866. 
" Soldiers of the T. R. A. Avill not molest the 
bearer, as he is a friend, — this order subject to the 
action of the provost-marshal. 

«J. H. Brown^, 

Lieut. -Col., 3d Cav., T. R. A." 

The delivery of my packet was a very simple mat- 
ter. I exchanged a greeting with the guard as I 
entered the empty room of my Canadian Mend ; 
lighted the gas ; clambered on the mantel-shelf; 
threw the letter through the stovepipe hole; heard 
it fall upon the floor ; wondered what Avould be my 
fortune if one of the officers in charge of Sweeney 
should happen to be in the room at the moment ; 
heard one of the prisoners read the document aloud 
to the other ; waited long enough to see that no an- 
swer was to be looked for; and then found my new 
acquaintance down stairs, and jested with him over 
the aid and comfort which his room had enabled me 
to give to the enemy. 

We were awakened soon after sunrise on the morn- 
ing of Saturday for our expedition across the border ; 
and, notwithstanding the persuasions of a demoral- 
ized Fenian colonel, who had arrived during the night, 
and proclaimed that the whole enterprise was aban- 
doned, and the army of invasion following close at 
his heels, we set off at about seven o'clock. Our 
equipage consisted of a stout pair of horses, an open 
wagon with seats for four, and a driver sent from 



276 LETTERS. 

the stable with secret orders not to venture across 
the border. 

"We amused ourselves on the road by counting the 
straggling Fenians, without arms, whom we met going 
southward. There were about a hundred and fifty of 
them, beside an uncountable crowd estimated to num- 
ber as many more, who swarmed about the village of 
East Highgate. On inquiry we found that this party 
comprised the regiment commanded by the officer 
who had reached St. Albans the night before, and that 
they were constantly debating whether to follow their 
colonel to the rear, or to choose a new commander 
and return to the front. 

As we neared the boundary, it became evident that 
the story of a general retreat had been only prema- 
ture. We met officers and men, armed and unarmed, 
alike pushing sullenly to the southward. One party 
had four or five good horses, which they led along, 
and vainly strove to sell at any price to the citizens 
along the road. Many of the men had bound about 
their bodies blankets and quilts, evidently the spoil of 
rustic households on the Canada side. Just upon the 
brow of the hill which overlooked the village on the 
line, we encountered a large group of men, all well 
armed, and, plodding along in the midst of them, 
Colonel Contri, his dress and equipments as pictur- 
esque as ever, but his dashing manner all gone, and 
his handsome eyes filled with tears. 

As he recognized me, he came up, and grasped my 
hand ; and when I asked the news, replied in a broken 
voice : — 

" I cannot tell you — what has happened. I — 
think — I — am — crazy." 

Then he beckoned me aside, and inquired, every 
word a victory over a sob : — 



A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 277 

" Do yoii think I will be arrested when I go through 
St. Albans ? I will leave my arms, and go very 
quietly, but I have only my uniform to wear." 

I gave him the best advice in my power, and then, 
leaving the driver in charge of the wagon in a yard by 
the roadside, my companion and I hurried forward on 
foot to see the evacuation. It was going on, indeed. 
A dense, disorderly crowd filled the road between the 
boundary and head-quarters, all moving towards the 
American side, and the men firing ofi" their pieces at 
random in a reckless manner, which put in peril the 
lives of themselves and the lookers-on. A beautiful 
cream-colored colt, made frantic by the noise of the 
musketry, was galloj^ing about, and twice I saw deadly 
muzzles presented at his head, and his life only saved 
by the interference of Fenian ofiicers. 

A little in advance of one group came General 
Spear, his sword borne over his shoulder, trudging 
wearily, and covered with dust. He, too, was almost 
in tears, and his utterance trembled with emotion as 
he said, in response to our greeting : — 

" Gentlemen, this is my rear-guard. We have had 
no arms, no ammunition, no reinforcements. My men 
refused to stay with me longer, but I cannot blame 
them." 

General Mahan came after, with his green flag 
wrapped in a newspaper under his arm, breathing 
oaths against the government which had interfered 
and spoiled the campaign. He gave us a rapid 
history of events — continued skirmishing at Frelis- 
burg, the capture of three more flags there, de- 
spair following the news of the seizure at Burlington, 
intelligence of the approach of British troops in 
force, a council of war, the men ready to mutiny, 
a retreat at last decided upon. 



278 LETTERS. 

"We are not going to give it up yet," said the Gen- 
eral : " we are going to keep our arms, and join the 
army at Malone " ; and many of the men re-echoed 
his determination. There was less despondency 
among the retreating body than I expected to see. 
Some shouted " Eastport " and " Bull Run " as they 
crossed the line ; others swore bitterly that they never 
again would fight for the United States government ; 
while many sang " The Irish Volunteer," or whistled 
"The Wearing of the Green," as they marched, to 
keep up the spirits of their fellows. 

The confidential stafi* officer who had offered the 
reward for the flag informed me that he had paid the 
amount stipulated to his friend, Colonel Tresilyan, 
who hoisted the captured banner before head-quarters. 
I perceived at once that this was a trick to avoid a 
payment which could hardly have been expected as 
circumstances had turned out. The egotistic aide 
also wished me to understand that he purposed to see 
every man safely across the boundary, and to be him- 
self the last to leave Canadian soil, and again remarked 
that he desired to see his name and rank given cor- 
rectly in print. 

In return for his news, we offered General Mahan a 
seat in our wagon, which he gladly accepted; and so 
we rode slowly along, parting the crowd of Fenians on 
foot, until we overtook the head-quarters of the right 
Aving. This consisted of a group of officers sitting on 
the grass by the roadside. General Spear being the 
central figure. Our passenger proposed to change 
places wath his superior officer, and General Spear 
heavily climbed into the wagon. The staff" officers, 
whose orderlies seemed to have deserted them in the 
hour of need, thrust upon us the luggage with which 
they were loaded down, consisting of carpet-bags, 



A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 279 

sabres, and overcoats, with the request to carry it to 
Franklin for them. After we had j^roceeded some 
distance, I discovered in the mass a home-made bed- 
comforter, which evidently did not accompany the 
Fenians into Canada, though they brought it out with 
them. I suggested that we were not bound by any 
law of courtesy to assist in the transportation of such 
booty as this ; and the diiver and I tossed it over- 
board while General Spear was talking. 

" Gentlemen," said he, slowly and sadly, as we 
trotted over the rough road, my comi^anion doing his 
duty under difficulties, by taking the words down in 
shorthand between the jolts, " this is the severest blow 
of my life. I gave up, to go into this enterprise, my 
commission in the regular army, — one of the best 
positions that a man could desire, — and now it has 
proved a failure. I lay no blame at the door of Gen- 
eral Sweeney. I believe him to be faithful, a gentle- 
man and a soldier. But the head-centres of the States 
have not kept their promises. I was to have for this 
right wing twenty-one regiments of infantry and five 
of cavalry, each five hundred strong, making twenty- 
six thousand men ; and with half this force, properly 
armed, I could have swept through Canada, taking 
every fort. I am still ready to give my all to the 
cause if future efforts are to be made." 

Just here the speaker was interrupted by a buggy 
approaching from the southward, driven by Colonel 
Livingstone, commanding the detachment of United 
States regulars which had been stationed at Swanton, 
on the border. In obedience to a sign from the Ameri- 
can officer, the Fenian officer left our wagon, taking 
his sword with him, and murmuring, " At least I am a 
gentleman, and shall behave like a gentleman." The 
two held a long conversation together, sitting apart 



280 . LETTERS. 

on the grass, while we waited patiently for results. 
Meanwhile General Mahan and the rest passed by, 
looking askance at the epaulettes of the United States 
officer, but unmolested by him. At length we resumed 
our journey to Franklin, General Spear and Colonel 
Livingstone riding down together. At the stopping- 
place, I asked the former if he was under arrest, and 
he replied that he was not, but had given his word of 
honor to report to the commander at St. Albans. 

I found Franklin in the midst of its last excitement, 
probably, for the present century at least. Crowds of 
Fenians swarmed about every building in the village. 
In one the last surgeon was extracting the ball from 
the back of the only man wounded in the random 
firing of the retreat. Fenians and villagers were 
driving a brisk trade in guns, sabres, and bayonets, 
which were readily sold by the returning invaders at 
the most absurdly low prices. Silver forks and 
spoons, bed-clothing, Canadian money, and other 
commodities, evidently unlawfully obtained, were 
also freely offered ; but these were regarded sus- 
piciously by the Franklin people, and found few pur- 
chasers. Noticing an unusual crowd in one portion 
of the village, I found it was Colonel Contri's regi- 
ment taking leave of its commander. The Italian's 
eyes poured forth tears copiously as he embraced each 
of his men in succession, and some of the less demon- 
strative Irish were crying, while all shouted in dis- 
cordant tumult, " He is the best officer in this army." 
" He has not lain drunk about the hotels ; he has 
stayed with his men." " Good by, Colonel, darling," 
and so forth. Ten minutes after I met the Colonel 
in the inn, his face still bathed in tears, and he in- 
quired, " Did you see my jDarting with my regi- 
ment ? " in a manner which suggested that, if I had 



A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 281 

not observed the scene, he was quite willing to go 
through it again for my edification. 

I returned to St. Albans at once, and remained 
there two days longer. I saw and chronicled there 
the arrival of General Meade ; the departure, by 
special trains, of the Fenian army, — each man paroled 
to abandon the unlawful enterprise, and the passage 
of each paid by the government ; the release upon 
parole of Generals Sweeney and Spear ; the excite- 
ment springing from false stories, set on foot by 
Fenians, that the British troops had invaded Ameri- 
can territory in their pursuit of stragglers. I need 
not go into these matters in detail ; and so the story 
of the invasion of Canada is complete. 



V. 



STORIES. 



STORIES 



A FRESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 

A BOSTON" STORY. 

FRED inNGSTON is in his Senior year. He 
looks back upon the callow days of his Freshman 
era as he might look at a portrait of himself bald- 
headed and in long clothes, and considers himself 
a least a hundred years older in wisdom than at the 
time of the romance which followed his enterinsj 
college. Indeed, he has advanced quite as rapidly in 
many kinds of knowledge which do not appear in the 
pamphlet catalogues as in the regular studies of his 
course, and carries himself in all kinds of society Avith 
the graceful serenity of a man of the world. Enthu- 
siasm is an unknown emotion to him, and his heart 
does not quicken its beats more than once a year, 
when he greets the annual victory on the Quinsiga- 
mond course with the " 'rah, 'rah, 'rah " of his uni- 
versity. He criticises the points of a woman with 
languid indifference, and looks out a field for flirta- 
tion during the lazy weeks that follow class-day as 
regularly as he chooses the cloth for his summer suit, 
and with the same delicate and fastidious taste. But 
I am not sure that he is a better fellow, or even 
that he holds himself in higher esteem, than when, 
fresh from the New Hampshire valleys where his 



286 STORIES. 

boyhood had been spent, he plunged with a hearty- 
delight, that did not disdain to show itself, into the 
multitude of new experiences to which his proximity 
to a great city introduced him. 

That he did not get into serious mischief in those 
wild, jolly days was not due so much to the protec- 
tion and advice of the cousin, two or three classes 
ahead of him, who had consented to take the lad as 
a room-mate and look out for him, as to Fred's 
own hard Yankee sense, and the thoroughly grounded 
principles of the essentials of morality which he owed 
to the teachings of his mother. In fact, Chester 
Bennett was less a mentor than a tormentor to the 
youngster. He snubbed and patronized Kingston, as 
he felt in the humor; lent him no aid against the 
hazing invasions which made the first years at Cam- 
bridge a period of misery; and generally treated the 
boy in such a fashion as to teach him the virtue of 
self-reliance. It was in an exceptional freak of good- 
nature, therefore, that he invited the Freshman to 
accompany him to the Winthrop Lyceum, on the 
evening from which dates the beginning of Fred 
Kingston's first romance, with Bessie Grey, comedi- 
enne^ as its heroine. 

Kingston was crude enough in such matters as not 
to enjoy the tragedy with which the programme began, 
and ?2m/ enough to say so. The star actor, whose every 
tone and gesture was applauded to the echo, seemed 
to him a mere stentorian mangier of Shakespeare, 
whose art deserved no commendation, because it did 
not pattern after nature. To be sure, he himself, as 
his companion argued to him, had never seen anybody 
under the harrowing circumstances which surrounded 
the hero of the play, and therefore should not pretend 
to superior knowledge ; but Fred stoutly maintained 



A FEESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 287 

that common-sense only was needed to perceive that 
a youth passionately in love with a maiden remark- 
ably ready to jump into his arms would not express 
his emotion by capering about the stage, and running 
up and down the gamut in his inflections, as did the 
stalwart Romeo whom they saw and heard. As to 
the lady of the balcony, Kingston declared that it 
was an outrage upon all taste for any Juliet to thrust 
herself in the -plsLce of a fellow's ideal with a row of 
false curls plastered down to her eyebrows, and a 
palpable circle of dark paint under her eyes. In this 
Bennett to some extent agreed with him, though he 
urged in extenuation that the actress was old enough 
to be Juliet's grandmother, and that she had been cast 
in Lady Macbeth the night before, and had identified 
herself with the character so completely that its se- 
pulchral tones yet lingered in her voice. Thus the 
evening passed rather tamely, though the younger 
student found some relief in laughing at the extrav- 
agances of Peter and the Apothecary with a boyish 
glee which made the impassive Senior uneasy, and 
caused some of the still more blase theatre-goers 
to look at the youngster with envy. At last the 
green curtain fell, a long row of slaughtered dramatis 
perso7iCB scrambling to theu' feet before it had fairly 
touched the stage. 

"Well, old fellow, shall we go, or stay for the 
farce, and run our chance of hitting the last car ? " 
said Bennett, consulting his watch, and yawning with 
a relish. 

" I 'm not particular," said Kingston. " Shall we 
snap up for it ? " 

It was the fashion that week in one or two sets at 
Cambridge to decide all doubtful matters, important 
or trivial, by the toss of a coin j so one of the young 



288 STORIES. 

men held his hat, crown upward, while the other fil- 
lipped a cent, and in obedience to its decision they 
remained ; and so Fred Kingston saw Bessie Grey. 

He was laughing with his accustomed heartiness 
over the clever acting of the i^oj^ular comedian, when, 
in resi3onse to that gentleman's frantic ring, the cham- 
bermaid of the " Fig and Trumpeter " emerged from 
the canvas door of that hostelry ; and Fred Kings- 
ton's laugh stopped half finished in his throat, never 
to be comi3leted till he was able to resume it with a 
a smile at himself months after. A slight ripple of 
applause greeted the actress as she entered, and 
Chester Bennett whispered : — 

" Bessie Grey. She is getting to be something of a 
favorite." 

Fred, if he heard the remark, made no reply. He 
ran his fingers through his yellow curls, as he always 
did in those days when moved, and levelled his op- 
era-glass at the apparition which had taken his breath 
away. 

It was a demure yet piquant little damsel, seemingly 
no further advanced in her teens than the freshman 
himself, modestly dressed as the sister he had left in 
his rural home, with none of the artificial charms to 
which his brief acquaintance with the stage had 
already accustomed him, but with a witchery such as 
he had never met in mimic or in actual life. Eyes 
which danced as naturally as her feet, veiled by long 
lashes needing no circle of paint to heighten their 
brilliant effect, and lips pouting Avith sauciness and 
wit,, but yet wonderfully suggestive of innocence and 
purity, were, perhaps, the souhrette's most beautiful 
features. But there was no inharmonious element to 
mar the symmetrical curves of her face ; and in coun- 
tenance and figure and bearing there was a nameless 



A FRESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 289 

fascination which set this young fellow's heart thump- 
ing against his waistcoat till he was fain to press his 
hand upon the place to keep it quiet. Fred watched 
her with thirsty eyes as she twinkled about the stage, 
listened with hungry ears to her birdlike share in the 
dialogue, and to her clear tones as she sung the simple 
ballad, " Five o'clock in the morning," which a greater 
songstress had made popular, but which sounded now 
a hundred-fold more thrilling to Fred Kingston's ears 
than when he had heard Parepa sing it the week before. 
He wiped his swimming eyes as "the old, old story was 
told again " ; and in short, long before the climax of 
the farce was reached, and the hasty hundred hurried 
from their seats " to be out before the crowd," the 
lad was deeply in love with a girl whom he had nev- 
er seen before, and of whom he knew nothing more 
than her lovely face, her dainty hand, her sweet voice, 
and her name — possibly assumed — -on a play-bill. 

" By Jove ! " he broke out, when the glare of the 
street lamps and the cool air of the night had dis- 
pelled the trance which had bound him. " She is the 
most beautiful woman I ever saw." 

" You are not ass enough to mean that white- 
washed old Juliet!" cried Chester Bennett, — who 
never used a smooth word when a rough one would 
answer his puii^ose as well. 

" Pshaw ! " said Kingston. " Of course I can mean 
nobody but Miss Grey." 

" Miss Grey ? O, you mean Bessie Grey, in the 
farce. Yes, she is pretty enough, seen across the 
footlights. But did you notice how horribly she 
flatted in that song ? " 

" Chess Bennett, I would not have such a musical 
ear as you have for an interest in Oakham," said the 
younger collegian. " You would find discords in the 
13 s 



290 STORIES. 

music of the spheres. But tell me if you know any- 
thing about this Bessie Grey." 

" To be sure I do, — all about her," replied Bennett, 
who never confessed ignorance, except to a professor. 
" She has only been here this season, but has played a 
year or two in New York. She lives with her mother, 
like most actresses, and supports the old woman and 
a little shaver of a brother on what she makes at the 
Lyceum. She makes great play with her eyes, and 
has a pretty foot ; but she has not learned to act yet ; 
and as to singing, the management ought not to let 
her attempt it." 

" I did not ask you for criticism," said Fred, a little 
sulkily; and then, as they sauntered about the square 
waiting for the car, he began again in an off-hand 
manner very jDOorly assumed, — 

"I wonder how a fellow goes to work when he 
wants to get acquainted with an actress off the 
stage." 

" Nothing is easier," said his comrade. " They have 
a benefit every once in a while. Bessie Grey, for in- 
stance, is underlined on the bill for a benefit next 
week, after this star engagement is over. Then the 
fellows call at their house, or boarding-house, and 
the girl is dressed up to the nines, and the callers 
buy tickets, and pay a big extra bonus for the sake of 
getting them in that way." 

" Is that really so. Chess, or are you chafiing 
again ? " 

" Word and honor, my boy. In fact, I tried it my- 
self once, in my first year, for the lark of the thing. 
Called in heavy style on that delicate creature who 
played Juliet to-night. Gave her five dollars for an 
orchestra chair, to see her in ' The Octoroon.' " 

Further conversation was interrupted by the arrival 



A FRESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 291 

of the car, and the rush to secure places. Several 
scores of the young men's fellow-collegians had been 
in town at the different theatres, and so our friends 
considered themselves lucky to obtain one or two 
square inches each of standing-room on the plat- 
forms, where the students thrust their elbows into 
each other's ribs, and woke the sleepers of the Port 
with their chorus of " Rolling Home," as the crowded 
vehicle rumbled throuo-h. 

Chester Bennett's snores were soon rising and fill- 
ing with such a regularity of rhythm and profundity 
of bass as would have delighted his waking ears ; but 
his chum sought slumber in vain, for the first time 
in his life, and mused of the eyes and eyelashes which 
had bewitched him, for hours and hours of sweet un- 
.rest. At last his thoughts dissolved into dreams, still 
of the same beautiful face; but it seemed hardly a 
moment's interval before the clanging of the prayer- 
bell awoke him, and he caught himself murmuring, — 

" And the old, old story was told again, 
At five o'clock in the morning." 

Xext week seemed a long way off to Fred Kings- 
ton ; but the interval would give him time to perfect a 
j^lan which at first thought seemed too audacious for 
his courage. He could have joined readily enough in 
an expedition to visit the worn and unattractive lead- 
ing lady of the AYinthrop Lyceum ; but to invade the 
privacy of the lovely and modest little maiden of the 
after-piece, seemed to involve something of a sacrilege. 
He revolved all day in his mind the question what he 
should say and how he should bear himself at the crit- 
ical moment of finding himself face to face with such 
a creature; and his recitation in Livy was the most 
imperfect since he had entered college. 

The lad went to the theatre again that evening, 



292 STOEIES. 

though, as the programme was a repetition of the 
last, he thought it would be useless to ask Bennett 
to accompany him. He bought a little bouquet, 
which he selected as carefully from the stock of 
flowers on the shop-counter as if his life depended 
on the choice. But when the after-piece began, and 
the assembly was laughing at the jests of the come- 
dian, he thought it might embarrass the lively little 
creature who danced in at her cue, to receive an 
untimely offering ; he thought he was too far from 
the stage to toss the gift gracefully; he thought 
the flowers, as he peeped at them under his coat, 
had withered in the close air of the theatre; he 
thought a thousand things which made him hesi- 
tate, until the curtain fell, and the opportunity had 
gone ; and then he carried his flowers away with 
him, and dropped them tenderly ofl" the bridge as 
he walked home. 

As his second glimpse of his vision of enchantment 
had wrought no diminution in the depth of his feel- 
ings, Fred Kingston summoned up a stouter courage 
next day. As he brooded to himself over his new, 
strange thoughts, the lines sung themselves over and 
over again in his mind: — 

*' He either fears his fate too much, 
Or liis deserts too small, 
That dares not put it to the touch, 
To gain or lose it all." 

So he tightened up his nerves to the achievement 
of throwing a bouquet to an actress who had received 
such a tribute before a hundred times in her profes- 
sional career, as he might have done to charge upon a 
hostile battery. He missed a recitation to run in town 
in the morning and secure a seat suitable for his ex- 
ploit ; and his head was filled all day with the thoughts 
of what he intended to do. 



A FRESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 293 

" I say," he broke out to his chum, in the afternoon, 
"why is it that the newspapers all give long criti- 
cisms to the star actor, at the Winthrop, and none of 
them have a word to throw at the performances of the 
stock company ? " 

Chester Bennett illuminated the subject with a flood 
of wisdom, as usual : " The explanation is very sim- 
ple. The criticisms in the paj^ers amount to nothing 
as criticisms. They are bought and paid for with the 
advertisements. While this star is here, they are 
written by his agent and runner, and the critics are 
glad enough to put them in, and save writing any of 
them themselves, for a small consideration." 

" Are you sure that is so, Chess ? I used to wi'ite 
a paragraph about our academy exhibitions at home, 
and the ' Clarion ' would print it ; but I supposed 
city papers were different." 

" Of course I am sure of it," said Bennett. " A friend 
of mine is on the ' Evening Asteroid,' and he told me 
how it is manag-ed." 

Then Bennett plunged into his work, and Kingston 
tried to give his attention to his book, while new pro- 
jects of methods of testifying his adoration for Bessie 
Grey thrust themselves distractingly upon his im- 
agination. 

Promptly, when the overture began, Fred was in his 
place in the theatre, his fragrant little offering hidden 
beneath his coat. The play was "Richelieu," and 
Bessie Grey was cast for Frangois, — the bills said, for 
the first time. The tragedian coughed and hummed 
through the opening lines of the second scene, in the 
conventional style ; but one spectator gave little 
heed to him, but waited, all expectation, for the cue 
for the entrance of the cardinal's page. He hardly 
recognized his idol at first, in her flaxen wig and male 



294 STOEIES. 

attire of black velvet; but before she spoke a throb at 
his heart told him it Avas she, and, half rising from his 
seat, he tossed his bouquet with an aim which inspira- 
tion seemed to render dexterous, so that it fell at 
Bessie Grey's feet. 

The single line which the actress had to deliver 
paused on her lips at the unexpected interruption ; the 
frowning tragedian frowned more fiercely than ever ; 
and the actor who played Joseph turned sharply 
round and peered into the audience as if to see whence 
the flowers had come. But the delay was only that 
of an instant ; Frangois picked up the flowers with a 
glance toward the giver, and the merest suggestion of 
a bow in his direction ; and in a moment more the 
message was delivered, and the messenger vanished to 
usher in the mature and aquiline Julie de Morteraar. 
Fred Kingston's pulse beat again ; but he was made 
uneasy by the sinister glances of the priestly Joseph, 
who seemed to take his tribute as a personal of- 
fence. Presently he caught a glimpse of the lithe, 
graceful form of Miss Grey at the wing at the 
opposite side of the stage, apparently scrutinizing 
the audience in his neighborhood ; and he exulted in 
the thought that she was thinking of him already, 
though she did not know him. He thought it possible 
she might wear his flowers, or one of them, in the 
later scenes ; but when she did not, he solaced himself 
Avith the thought that such an ornament would be 
absurd in Frangois, the embryo Capuchin, and gave 
himself up to the enjoyment of the new revelations 
of her beauty and grace which the evening's part 
exhibited. 

Bessie Grey was not to appear in the after-piece ; so 
when the drama was ended the young fellow, in al- 
most a delirium of delicious j)assion, left the theatre. 



A FRESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 295 

He sought the cool ah' and comparative sechision of 
the Common to cool his brain, and after j^acing up and 
doAvn one of its paths for a while, he betook himself to 
the reading-room of the nearest hotel, to carry out the 
second part of the programme which he had mapped 
out for himself He had provided paper in his pocket ; 
he had studied closely for a few days past the amuse- 
ment columns of some of the newspapers ; he was 
naturally a quick writer, and his subject carried its 
inspiration with it. In half an hour or so, and after one 
or two false beginnings had been crumpled up and 
torn to pieces, he achieved something which satisfied 
him. It ran in this way : — 

" The imj^ersonation of Francois by Miss Bessie 
Grey was, as we are informed by the programme, 
the lady's first assumption of the j^art. It was a 
triumphant success in every particular, and elicited 
the warmest enthusiasm of the audience. The lady's 
beauty shone out brilliantly through her masculine 
disguise, and her rendering of the difiicult character 
was marked by rare excellence, thorough study, and 
dramatic power. Miss Grey fairly shared the honors 
of the evening with the tragedian himself, and we 
congratulate her warmly on the impression made 
upon the public." 

Ejngston thought of adding a line of stern criticism 
of the performance of Joseph by Mr. Fletcher, to whom 
he had taken a great aversion ; but he reflected that 
there might be some unforeseen difiiculty in obtain- 
ing the publication of censure, and decided that it 
was best to let his eulogy stand alone. He folded 
the document carefully, and strode boldly through the 
now almost deserted streets to the office of the 
"Daily Disseminator." He did not care to go to 
the "Asteroid," lest Bennett's friend might cany 



296 STOEIES. 

the story of what he had done to his chum's ears ; 
and he never doubted that all the papers were alike, 
and that Bennett's theory in regard to them was 
strictly correct. So he clambered up the long flights 
of dirty stairs to the editorial rooms, and confidently 
entered. 

The narrow room was hot with burning gas. Half 
a dozen gentlemen in their shirt-sleeves sat writing at 
desks and tables, and cutting u]) sheets of tissue-paper 
manuscript with long scissors. The rumble of the 
press in the basement gave the floor a tremor beneath 
the visitor's feet. 

" Is the dramatic critic in ? " said he, after a mo- 
ment's hesitation. 

The scribbler nearest pointed with his left hand to 
a figure in the corner, while his right hand kept gal- 
loping over long strips of yellowish brown paper. 
Kingston approached the personage thus designated, 
who had tipped his chair back against the wall, and 
was refreshing himself with an apple and a mug of 
steaming cofiee. 

" Do you notice the theatres, sir, for the ' Dissem- 
inator'?" 

" I have that pleasure," said the gentleman, rather 
loftily. 

" I should like," said Fred, drawing up his chair so 
near that he could assume a confidential tone, "to 
have you print this, or something like it, in your 
notice to-morrow morning of the ^performance at the 
Lyceum." 

The journalist took the manuscript, and seemed to 
read it at a single glance. Then he looked at Fred 
more carefully than he had done before, and with 
rather a queer expression in his eyes. 

" Were you sent here by anybody with this ? " 



A FRESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 297 

" O no, sir," said Kingston. " It is nobody's mat- 
ter but my own. I shall be very happy to make it 
right, of course, on your own terms " ; and the lad felt 
for his pocket-book. 

" You are quite mistaken, sir," said the critic, Avith 
a fantastic flourish of his pewter mug. " This is the 
office of the ' Daily Disseminator.' Our praise is un- 
bought, as our censure is unterrified. May I ask if I 
have not seen you at Old Cambridge ? " 

" It is quite possible, sir," said the Freshman, a little 
puzzled ; " but I cannot remember haAing met vou be- 
fore." 

" Very likely," replied the other ; " I never forget a 
face, and I am rarely mistaken in a student of Har- 
vard College. As to your discriminating notice of 
Miss Grey, it may need to be modified somewhat to 
make it harmonize with my own article; but I will 
see that something is said." 

Kingston was dimly conscious of being quizzed, 
but there was nothing he could resent; and as the 
writer took up his pen and seemed to consider the in- 
terview ended, he murmured some rather vague 
thanks, and withdrew. As he reached the first land- 
ing he heard a burst of laughter ; and pausing in- 
voluntarily for a moment, his quick ear detected his 
own sentences of jDanegp-ic read aloud with a rat- 
tling fire of comments from several voices. Cha- 
grined at his evident blunder, and attributing it to 
Bennett's advice, he hurried away ; and it was not till 
he reached the bridge that the soothing influence of a 
charmino' imasce came between his heart and his mor- 
tification. 

Even this did not wholly eradicate the impression 
which his visit to the newspaper office had made ; for 
he hastened out into the Square before breakfast in 

13* 



298 STOEIES. 

the morning to purchase a copy of the ' Disseminator.' 
There was a long analysis of tlie ti-aits of the star's 
j^erformance, as usual ; and at the foot of it Kingston's 
eye fell upon this paragrah : — 

" Miss Elizabeth Grey (for so we presume she was 
christened) made a moderately successful first attemjjt 
at playing Frangois. This little lady is becoming a 
pet of the juvenile class in the audiences at the Win- 
throp, and some of her admirers were quite la\ish in 
their applause; but a mat urer judgment finds much 
crudity and inexperience in her acting, and only care- 
ful study and assiduous labor can win her real success 
in that career to which, from her transfer from farce to 
serious drama, she seems to asi^ire." 

To some temperaments a blow like this might have 
had a sting in it ; but Fred Kingston was at an age 
and at a stage of passion which tossed such things off 
very easily. He saw only virulent malignity in the 
words of the critic, probably pensioned by some rival 
actress to decry the rising genius of the stage ; and, 
without stopping to brood over the matter, he set 
about thinking in what other way he could serve the 
object of his adoration, and give vent to the feelings 
of his heart. He must have been musing over it in 
the night-watches ; for it was an amazingly short time 
after he had shut himself up in his room before he was 
pacing up and down, running his fingers through his 
hair, and murmuring, with a careful solicitude for feet 
and rhythm, the following lines : — 

" Fly over the footlights, my gift, and drop down 
At the feet of the maid that 's the pet of the town, 
And when she bends o'er you, some violet say — 
There's a note snugly hidden, for Miss Bessie Grey. 

" One may pee on the stage hosts of beautiful girls, 
And, bewitched by their eyes and ensnared by their curls, 



A FRESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 299 

He may think from the skies they are seraphs astray ; 
But they 're none of them angels, save pure Bessie Grey. 

*' All the rest are composed of the commonplace stuff, 
And for aught that I know are good creatures enough; 
But there 's one has been touched by a heavenly raj', 
And she can be no one but bright Bessie Grey. 

" There 's not one that is worthy with lier to compare, 
Not one half so modest, so graceful, so fair. 
And whether she 's pensive, or whether she 's gay, 
She's equally charming, is sweet Bessie Grey. 

" With her dark waving hair o'er a brow white as snow, 
With her cheeks where the pink blushes dart to and fro, 
With her eyes which the soul that 's beneath them betray, 
There is no one can choor^e but adore Bessie Grey." 

" The ending is a little abnipt," thought Fred, after 
he had read this production over five or six times, 
"but it looks all the more passionate and sincere." 
Then he dashed out and purchased the daintiest and 
glossiest paper in the bookstore, on which to copy 
his stanzas, ajDpendiug his name to them in full ; and 
what with a trip in town to secure an eligible seat 
again, and the selection of flowers Avorthy to accom- 
pany such a missive, there was very little of the day 
left for the business which had brought him from New 
Hampshire to Cambridge. But college honors seemed 
comparatively worthless things to the Freshman at 
that time ; and any complaints of his conscience were 
easily drowned by the thumj^ings of his heart. 

The play of the evening was a repetition of that of 
the night before, and Fred's experience had few new 
features. He waited till the second act before tossing 
his bouquet ; but Richelieu and Joseph were both on 
the stage as before, and seemed to like his modest 
nosegay no better than at first. Indeed, Joseph 
started to pick it up, but Francois stooped for it too 
quickly for him. Kingston had tied his note carefully 



300 STORIES. 

beneath the flowers, so that its presence should not 
be discovered till the actress inspected them at her 
leisure. He remained till the curtain fell, applauding 
Francois faithfully when the co-operation of any of her 
other admirers gave him an excuse, and occasionally, 
not to seem odd, joining in the applause which greeted 
the hoarse grunts and coughs of the tragedian. Fred 
fancied Bessie Grey's eyes turned in his direction more 
than once ; and in her girlish stride in manly boots 
and doublet, her little hand gleaming through a lace 
ruffle, her struggle for the precious packet in the rude 
arms of De Beringhen, he found new food for the 
passion which had taken possession of him, and new 
material for dreams, in one of which he saw the little 
actress, in her jaunty page's costume, standing on the 
piazza of his house at home, declaiming the lines he 
had written in the morning. 

There are lads, and perhaps there were some then 
at Harvard who likewise fancied themselves in love 
with Bessie Grey, who would be satisfied with the 
solace found in frequent visits to the theatre and a 
fusillade of boquets. But Fred Kingston was of 
another sort. He must keep moving, from one step 
to another, or his love would have torn him to j^ieces; 
or at least so it seemed to him. So a day or two 
after, when he thought the time of the promised bene- 
fit was near enough to justify the purchase of tickets, 
he rung the bell of the quiet house in which, as he 
had learned after much inquiry, the popular souhrette 
of the Winthrop Lyceum had lodgings. 

The waiting-maid scrutinized him doubtfully, and 
inclined to the ojjinion that Miss Grey was not in, but 
consented, upon solicitation, to take the visitor's card 
up and see. The apparent unexpectedness of such a 
caller made Fred begin to expect a rebuff, and he was 



A FRESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 301 

agreeably surprised when the servant came back with 
" Would you please to walk up, sir ? " He was 
ushered up several flights of stairs, and left standing 
at a door at which he knocked with tremulous and 
eager fingers. 

The trim little lady who responded to his knock 
was the same Miss Grey who had fascinated him 
across the footlights, and yet diflTerent. Her manner 
was remarkably subdued, but her bearing had an ease 
and confidence about it in contrast with the young 
ladies of Kingston's acquaintance in private life. Her 
voice was low and gentle, and it seemed imjDOssible 
that it could ever be made to fill the huge cavern of 
the theatre. Her dress had nothing coquettish about 
it, and was to the last degree plain, cheap, and service- 
able. Her hand, which glittered with rings when on 
the stage, even when playing a chambermaid, was now 
unadorned, except with a thimble. Her hair, though 
no art could conceal its unusual heaviness and quan- 
tity, Avas twisted up almost contemptuously behind 
her head. But Fred's eyes, as they observed with a 
glance this absence of all adventitious aids to beauty, 
rejoiced also in the discovery that the woman was as 
lovely as the actress had been. The marvellous eyes, 
the matchless lashes, the pure complexion, the ravish- 
ing smile, had gained nothing from the gaslight or 
the paint-brush ; and if he had loved her at a distance, 
he loved her tenfold more on close inspection. 

" Come in, sir. Mr. Kingston, this is my mother." 

The personage thus introduced was a plump, com- 
fortable old lady witli a silky mustache, who sat sew- 
ing by the window, and only half rose at the intro- 
duction, glancing at the young man rather searchingly 
through gold-bowed spectacles. 

One or two commonplace remarks of an unusually 



302 STORIES. 

commonplace cliaracter gave Fred Kingston time to 
observe first, that his flowers were set in a vase on the 
mantel, and second, that the room was a small one, 
undoubtedly doing duty as a chamber, — though the 
bedstead ivas disguised as an imposing bookcase with 
glass doors, — and that it was strewn with the imple- 
ments and materials of dressmaking. Pie was about 
to refer to his errand of purchasing tickets, when Miss 
Grey spoke : — 

" I dare say you may not know, Mr. Kingston, that 
it is quite against the rule for me to receive a gentle- 
man caller ; but I will tell you why I have made an 
exception in your case." 

" I beg your pardon," said the youth, quite confused. 
" I thought — I was told — could not I get some 
places for your benefit ? " 

" O, dear, no, indeed. You will find them at the 
box-ofiice. Ma does not approve of girls peddling 
their tickets out themselves, and I quite agree with her." 

" That is something Lizzie has never done since she 
took to the stage," put in the old lady, " and never 
will." 

Fred must have looked a little puzzled at the name, 
for Miss Grey explained : — 

" Lizzie is my own family pet name. There were 
two or three Lizzies at the theatre where I came out, 
so the manager thought it best to take another. But 
nobody calls me Bessie except the public." 

This trifling confidence put the Freshman a little 
more at his ease; but still he stammered over his 
apology for having misunderstood about calling, and 
fumbled with his hat. 

" Now don't apologize, Mr. Kingston," said the 
young lady, who had laid aside her work, and was sit- 
ting, her chin resting on her hand, in an attitude at 



A FRESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 303 

once statuesque and bewitching. "I am sincerely 
glad you are here, because I have two things to say to 
you. You won't be offended?" 

"O Miss Grey!" 

" You can hardly be vexed with the first one. It is 
simply to thank you for your elegant j^oetry." 

Fred blushed deeply. The young lady noticed it, 
but remained quite composed, and went on, ex23ressing 
her delight by a pretty gesture. 

"I think it is perfectly superb. Do you know, I 
never had any poetry before, though I have had loads 
of bouquets, of course. And then this brought in my 
name so pat, I was sure it was written on purjDOse for 
me." 

Kingston began to rally a little. 

" I never had a disposition to write poetry to any one 
else." 

" I 'm sure I thank you for it with all my heart, and 
I shall always keep it. ISTow I am afraid you will be 
vexed with me if I say what I was going to." 

" I hardly think I could look you in the face and be 
vexed with anything from your lips. Miss Grey." 

" I only want to ask you, if you should ever give 
me a bouquet again, — which I dare say you never 
will, — to give it in one of my own pieces, — the farces, 
or where I am first lady, — and not in the tragedy. 
Star actors never like to have any attention paid to 
any of the stock ; and this one has complained to the 
manager, and, to tell you the truth, I was threatened 
with a fine if it ever happened again." 

" A fine ! " said Kingston, puzzled. 

"Yes, out of my salary. I dare say you never 
heard that theatres had such things, but it is a part of 
the system. I cannot afford to pay many, so I was 
wondering how to ask you the favor; and if your 



304 STORIES. 

card had not come up just now, you might have got a 
note from me through the mail. You are studying at 
Cambridge, are you not ? " 

Fred admitted it, and murmured some suggestion 
of departure. 

" Now I shall be sure you are put out with me, if 
you do not sit and chat a moment, and say you forgive 
me for such an awkward request. 

" It is I who should ask your forgiveness for such 
an awkward blunder. I am rather a new hand at the 
theatre, and knew no better. In fact, I thought you 
deserved some sign of the appreciation of your act- 
ing much more than the star." 

Miss Grey arose, and swept him a stately courtesy, 
in the manner of Mrs. Kemble. 

"If only the manager had your taste, and would 
show it by sharing the house with me ; or the ' Daily 
Disseminator,' which has just deigned to notice me for 
the first time, when I have been here more than two 
months." 

Kingston blushed again, but his hostess did not 
notice it. She hesitated a moment, and then said : — 

" I wish I could show in some way a little gratitude 
for your compliment and for your lovely poetry. I 
will tell you what I will do, Mr. Kingston, if you will 
promise not to lisp a word about it. I will play you 
a solo. I have been positively suffering for a critic ; 
for it is a great secret at the theatre, yet ; and mother 
always throws cold water when I try anything new." 

While she spoke the young lady had flitted into a 
closet, and produced therefrom a delicate little banjo. 

" You see," she said, as she tuned the strings, " it 
is for the new burlesque next Christmas. All the 
girls are already practising new songs in private, and 
I have taken a notion to steal a march on them, 



A FRESHMAN'S ROxAIANCE. 305 

and do my own accompaniment. Such things take 
with the pubHc." 

Then in a moment she threw off the young lady, 
and became the actress. She seated herself on a low 
chair, and managed her instrument like a master. 
She sang one of the oldest and most hackneyed of the 
negro melodies, with a richness of voice, a plaintive 
sweetness of expression which filled Fred's eyes with 
involuntary tears, and brought his whole being into 
sympathy with the sad, wild song. Her mother 
stitched steadily away at the window, but once or 
twice she wiped her glasses. Then, without an 
instant's pause or warning, the young artist dashed 
into one of the j^oj^ular comic songs of the day, — a 
silly, nonsensical affair in itself, but which Bessie 
Grey's humorous power, command of the eccentricities 
of facial expression and gesture, and skill with her 
instrument made irresistibly laughable. As soon as 
the shock of the transition from pathos was over, 
Kingston found himself laughing with the uncon- 
trollable glee of a child. He held his aching sides, as 
the singer went on in apparent unconsciousness of the 
effect produced. The old lady at the window had 
recovered her impassibility, and stitched on through 
the fun with the gravitj of an automaton. 

" There, Mr. Kingston," said Miss Grey, dropping 
her banjo and resuming her dignity in the same in- 
stant ; " now you can judge what we have to contend 
with. Imagine trying the effect of a new idea in bur- 
lesque, day after day, on a listener like this." The 
girl patted her mother's cheek as she spoke, and the 
old lady vouchsafed a smile in acknowledgment of 
her daughter's tenderness which she had not given 
to her absurdity. 

Kingston was vigorously applauding, and recovering 
from his fit of laughter by slow degrees. 



306 STOEIES. 

" Do you row in any of the boat-clubs ? " said Miss 
Grey, with abrupt earnestness. 

" O yes," replied Fred, recovering his composure at 
a question which seemed to betoken a personal inter- 
est. " I was fond of it before I left home, and so I 
have a place in the class crew." 

" Do you know, I would give the world to learn to 
row?" 

" Do you know, I would give the world to teach 
you?" 

Fred had risen, hat in hand, to go ; but something 
in the expression of the face of the little lady made 
him continue : — 

" I could give you a lesson very easily, if you would 
really like it." 

" I am afraid it could not be managed. I should 
hardly care to meet your fellow-students on the 
Charles." 

" Of course I should not propose such a thing. I 
should arrange it in this way. Take an excursion 
down the harbor. The boats are none of them 
taken off yet. I will engage a skiff and oars before- 
hand, and in an hour or two you will learn to row as 
well as you play the banjo. But you must have a 
broad-brimmed hat to protect your complexion." 

Bessie Grey clapped her hands with pleasure. " Ma, 
dear, do you hear ? " she cried. " Mr. Kingston has in- 
vited us to a sail down the bay, and he is to teach me 
to row, which you know I have been dying to learn. 
When will we go ? " 

The old lady rubbed her glasses again, and looked 
at her daughter carefully. Then she returned to her 
sewing, having said nothing at all. 

" To be sure," said the daughter, " it all depends on 
my engagements. Tuesday there is to be no rehearsal, 



A FEESHMAN'S EOMANCE. 307 

and we shall be back in ample time for the evening. 
Mr. Kingston, I shall owe you more than I can tell 
you. It shall be Tuesday. If you will call on Mon- 
day, or send us a note, to tell us time and place, ma 
and I will be ready as prompt as pins. And now 
good by." 

Tuesday, Fred remembered, as he regained the 
street, would be particularly inconvenient for him; but 
what college duty should thrust itself in the way of 
such an en2:ao:ement as he had made ? He seemed to 
walk on air as he returned to the suburb of study and 
literature, — or rather, since even that element was too 
prosaic, to float on the piuk clouds of sunset. He was 
too innocent, too modest a fellow to look upon the 
sudden favor which had been shown him as some of 
his classmates would have done in his place. His 
vanity was not a whit exalted by it, for his love left 
no room for such a passion in his heart ; and he saw 
much for admiration in the manner in which the 
modest and prudent girl had interpreted his invitation 
to include her mother. To be sure, his imagination 
had not counted upon the presence of that hirsute, 
observing, reticent old lady, in its picture of the de- 
lights of a sail in the harbor ; but he saw at once that 
it was proper and necessary. 

Making up for neglect in his studies, attending the 
benefit with the finest bouquet of a dozen which cele- 
brated that occasion, and completing his arrangements 
for the harbor excursion, kept the Freshman busy 
the next few days. His new experiences seemed to 
make him rapidly grow more mature and manly ; and 
he kept his own counsel, and asked no advice of his 
chum. But Chester Bennett, with all his bluntness, 
was sharp enough upon occasion. It did not take the 
ingenuity of a detective, indeed, to see the way I^ngs- 



'308 STORIES. 

ton's thoughts constantly tended. One morning, after 
watching his friend awhile as he sat musing in his 
" studying chair," Bennett broke out : — 

" I say, young one, you are ailing. You think it is 
none of my business, I dare say ; but I know a prescrip- 
tion that will do you good." 

Fred only blushed, and plunged into Horace. 

" That is, the first hundred pages of ' Pendennis.' 
Leave it alone, if you like ; but if you read and profit 
by it, some day you will thank me for the suggestion." 

Fred offered no rej^ly ; but his curiosity was aroused, 
and in the afternoon he had borrowed the book and 
was skimming over its pages with eager interest. 
Presently he hurled the volume at his chum's broad 
back. 

" Confound you, Bennett ! " said he, irritated out of 
his reserve : " if you think that applies to me you are 
greatly mistaken. This woman is old and stupid and 
ignorant, and Irish to boot. She can hardly write, 
and acts by rote, without a spark of genius. This Pen 
is a conceited fool, and the comparison is abominable." 

" Pray, how do you know the age of the siren of the 
Winthrop ? " said Bennett, amused at the tempest he 
had raised. 

" She is six months younger than I am," rejoined 
Kingston. " I have seen her birthday stated in the 
answers to corresj^ondents in the ' Clipper.' " 

" If you are so far gone as to accept the ' Clipper ' 
as an authentic substitute for a family Bible, I have 
nothing to say," said Bennett. "It will pass off" in 
time, like the measles." 

Kingston snatched his hat and dashed out, as the 
only way to resist a temptation to give physical vent 
to his anger. As he cooled off" in the open air, he 
comforted himself with comparisons of bright, clever, 



A FRESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 309 

ardent, witty Bessie Grey with the heavy, stolid, ma- 
ture and mercenary heroine of Pendennis's romance, 
and with thoughts of how little either the novelist or 
his cousin knew of the actual feelings of a man's heart. 

Tuesday morning saw a party of three embarked 
on a clean, shaded deck of the Rose Standish: a* 
young girl, quietly yet bewitchingly dressed, full of 
enjoyment of the sea-breeze, the picturesque sights of 
the wharf, and all the incidents of the little voyage, 
and not afraid to let her pleasure be manifest in cease- 
less chatter and notes of admiration ; a lad, luxuriating 
with a quieter rapture in what seemed to hhn the 
happiest day of his life; and an old lady knitting 
away for dear life, rarely vouchsafing a glance to the 
many sights of the harbor, but keeping her eyes open 
to all the movements of the pair under her charge. 
Now and then a passenger gave a second look at the 
bright face of the actress, and whispered her name to a 
companion ; whereupon Bessie Grey droj^jDed her veil, 
and seemed for a moment to make an eftbrt to pre- 
serve a quieter demeanor. But the inspiration of the 
bracing air and the dancing water was too strong for 
such resolutions; and she threw off her mask and her 
restraint together, and braved curious eyes and gossip- 
ing tongues. 

"Now these impertinent starers will annoy us no 
longer," said Kingston, as they left the steamer at the 
first stoj^ping-place. 

" If you had been stared at as much as I have, you 
would not mind it," replied Bessie Grey. "It is the 
way I earn my living." 

" Here is my boat, according to contract, all clean 
and ready," said the collegian, looking over the edge 
of the pier. " She 's a clumsy tub compared with the 
shell we use on the river." 



310 STOEIES. 

" Bless your heart, Lizzie, I never will venture into 
a thing like that," cried the old lady, in terror evi- 
dently sincere. " See how it rocks and tosses now." 

" That is only the swell from the wheels of the 
steamer, I assure you," said Kingston. " When she 
gets out of the way, the water Avill be as smooth as 
glass." 

" It is very well for young people to talk," replied 
the old lady, with great firmness. " But I shall not 
trust myself on such a cockle-shell. I am always sea- 
sick ; and I declare I can feel some qualms already, 
standing here." 

Fred looked dismayed ; but his energetic little com- 
panion seemed equal to the contingency. 

" You will do as you like, ma, of course ; but I have 
not come all this way to learn to row, to give it up 
before I have touched an oar. You will just have 
to sit still on shore and knit, and keep watch of us to 
give the alarm if we capsize, and we will kee]) within 
sight." 

"But I can't sit. here," said the mother, looking 
dolefully at the rough planks of the pier, the lobster 
traps lying in the hot sun, and the ice and vegetables 
which the boat had brought down from the city to 
the sojourners at the little watering-place. 

" I have a very pleasant place for you close by," said 
Kingston, by no means displeased at the modification 
in the programme. " You can sit at your ease on the 
covered veranda of the hotel. It is cool and comfort- 
able, and commands a delightful view of the bay." 

This arrangement was promptly carried out. The 
young people escorted Mrs. Grey to her observatory, 
where she looked with frigid dignity upon a group of 
fashionable dowagers of her own age, who returned 
her glances with equal chilliness. The boat was 



A FRESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 311 

brought to meet them, at Fred's order, by the amphib- 
ious youth of whom he had hired it ; and presently a 
few strokes with his vigorous arms shot the Uttle skiff 
with its load of beauty and love out into the open 
water. The fair passenger waved her handkerchief 
to the watcher on shore, and the signal was acknowl- 
edged by a flourish of the tii^pet upon which the old 
lady's needles were engaged. 

If Kingston thought they had come out for senti- 
ment or for flirtation, he was disappointed ; for the 
young lady had come to take a lesson in rowing, and 
showed that she meant to go vigorously about it. 
Fred himself being of an active disposition, accus- 
tomed to devote himself with energy to whatever task 
he had in hand, this earnest conduct of the little actress 
was far from disagreeable to him, and he threw him- 
self into the business of the hour with an enthusiasm 
equal to the ardor of his pupil. Interest and natural 
quickness made Miss Grey an apt scholar, and her 
progress was rapid. Though light, she was by no 
means weak, and she pulled stoutly and bravely, now 
with one oar, now with two, as her cavalier guided the 
boat up and down the sheltered cove, never quite out 
of sight of the j^iazza Avhich was the mother's watch- 
tower. Now and then she "caught a crab"; once 
she dropped her oar overboard ; but she laughed mer- 
rily at her own errors, which grew fewer and fewer as 
she became familiar with the boat and the water. She 
was in the most gracious and charming humor ; and it 
was a time of rare enjoyment for Fred I^ngston. If 
his companion was disposed to take a practical view 
of things, and give him no opportunity to exjoress his 
emotions, the magnetisni of her presence was in itself 
a luxury ; he could not help touching her hand now 
and then, in his capacity of instructor ; and the mere 



312 STORIES. 

consciousness that they were alone together was in 
itself a feast of delight. 

So the afternoon wore away. Before Kingston ran his 
boat on the beach, he was able to inform Miss Grey, Avith 
the sincerity of a waterman and none of the exaggera- 
tion of a lover, that there were few ladies who could row 
as well as she. The matron on the piazza welcomed 
them back placidly, and seemed to have gained by her 
quiet sojourn on the shore quite as good an appetite 
as their prolonged exertions had given the rowers for 
the repast of chowder and chicken which followed. 
Then they all strolled lazily over the pebbles, skipping 
stones over the water, and seeking with little success 
for curious shells. When the white paddle-wheels of 
the steamer came in sight, they hurried to the landing 
to be ready for her arrival. As they steamed wp the 
harbor, a gorgeous sunset gilded the masts and chim- 
neys of the city, and tinged with a rosy flush the 
white wakes of the tug-boats darting to and fro all 
around them. Bessie Grey was too tired to exhibit 
the exhilaration of the morning, and said little ; so 
Fred was left to his own thoughts, which harmonized 
with the evening ; and all the loveliness of the scene 
was impressed upon his memory with a vividness 
which keeps its minutest details there yet. He left 
the ladies at their lodgings, and tried to fancy that the 
joressure with which he accompanied his parting shake 
of Bessie's hand was returned ever so slightly. He 
dropped in at the theatre a few hours later, before 
leaving town, as had become his habitual custom. 
His arms and shoulders were tired, and he was glad 
to find a vacant chair ; and he marvelled with a new 
admiration at the sprightliness and freshness with 
which the slender girl who had striven so valiantly at 
the oars with him now carried off a merry part in the 



A FRESHMAN'S EOMANCE. 313 

farce. She danced about the stage as lightly as ever, 
and her infectious gayety kindled a light in hundreds 
of dull, weary faces in the audience. 

That glimpse, which told him how distinct fi*om the 
life of the actress was the life of the woman, was almost 
the last bright spot in Fred Kjngston's romance. 

He found at his room that night a despatch from 
home which summoned him to the bedside of his 
mother. He spent a fortnight in the old homestead, 
and returned with a light, happy heart ; for the invalid 
had recovered in spite of the forebodings of a different 
result, and the relief from anxiety sent his thoughts 
Avith an added zest to the new joy which his acquaint- 
ance with the actress had brought him. 

His chum was absent wdien he reached his room ; 
and Fred was glad of it presently, though at first he 
regretted that Bennett's deep voice was not ready to 
welcome him back. A little heap of letters had accu- 
mulated on his desk, and he seized upon one addressed 
in a strange, feminine hand, with a presentiment of 
something evil in store for him. As he tore open the 
envelope, some printed slips dropped out. He j^aused 
to pick up the only one which had fallen within reach, 
and read it before beginning the letter itself. It was 
marked in pencil, " From the ' Daily Disseminator,' " 
and ran in this way : — 

" The Winthrop Lyceum brought out last evening 
the new sensational play, ' The Lightkeeper's Daugh- 
ter.' The piece is like others of its class, a conglom- 
eration of trashy dialogue and absurd incidents, set 
off by costly scenery and intricate mechanical con- 
trivances. It would hardly have made a hit but for 
the very^ remarkable performance of the part of the 
heroine by Miss Grey. The acting of this lady 
throughout was much better than any effort of hers 

14 



314 STOEIES. 

which we have before seen. But the great feature of 
her assumption was her rowing, in the great storm 
scene, where the lightkeeper's daughter rescues the 
hero of the j^lay from drowning. Miss Grey is evi- 
dently no novice with the oars; and her skilful 
management of her boat brought down the house in 
thunders of applause, which quite drowned the re- 
sounding sheet-iron of the property room. We con- 
gratulate the lady upon that evident close study of 
detail which is the first requisite of success as an 
artist." 

lOngston read the extract twice ; then turned to 
the letter itself: — 

"Dear Mr. Kingston": The very high praise I 
have won from a critic usually rather difficult to 
please inspires me with a desire to thank you once 
more for the instructions from you which contributed 
so much to my success. I was in despair of ever be- 
ing able to row either gracefully or naturally across 
the stage, until your generous ofier gave me an oppor- 
tunity to ' study a detail," which, as you will see, was 
essential to my success in the new i3iece. 

"As I am writing, I enclose you another newspaper 
slip, which I presume you may have seen before this. 
As we have ' no cards,' there is no more ceremonious 
way of conveying the important intelligence. I dare 
say you remember his caj)ital performance of Joseph 
in ' Kichelieu.' 

"With renewed thanks, in which ma joins me, for 
our delightful day down the harbor, I am 

"Yours sincerely, 

"'Bessie Grey.'" 

Fred found the last half of the letter an enigma, 
but he more than suspected a terrible solution. He 



A freshman's romance. 315 

groped under his desk for the little scrap which had 
floated there. His eyes, could hardly distinguish the 
letters : — 

" We learn that, previous to the performance at the 
Winthrop on Saturday night, tlie charming souhrette 
of the establishment. Miss Grey, and the talented 'old 
man,' Mr. Fletcher, were joined in matrimony. Mr. 
Fletcher's j^rofessional designation is merely a techni- 
cal one, as he is himself quite young, though the pub- 
lic knows him only under gray hairs and painted 
wrinkles. The haj^py j)air have little leisure to cele- 
brate the honeymoon, for the bride must be ready on 
Monday night to ply her vigorous oars as the maid of 
the lighthouse, to rescue the handsome hero whom her 
husband, as the hoary wrecker, has thrust beneath the 
canvas billows." 

I shall not undertake to analyze or to depict the 
pang which struck Fred Kingston's heart as he read 
the words which the writer had penned so airily. He 
flung himself on the bed, and covered his head with 
the pillow; and if he sobbed as he had done when a 
child over a smaller grief, there was no one there to 
betray his weakness. Chester Bennett opened the 
door a little later, and after one glance stepped back, 
and muttered, "Poor fellow! He has come from a 
sad and broken home, I dare say. He will bear it 
better alone for a while." So the youth passed through 
his dark hour undisturbed. When Bennett came back 
again Kingston was gone, tramping grimly through 
the fallen leaves miles away. At last they did meet ; 
and though the Senior learned that he had been wrong 
in his first surmise, there was something in his chum's 
flice which deterred him from j^ressing any inquiry as 
to the real nature of what had befallen him. Fred 
Kingston's face gained that day a hardness and cool- 



316 STOEIES. 

ness of expression which it has never lost ; but the bit- 
terness of the experience which caused the change has 
passed away, and he looks back on his first, brief ro- 
mance with little more emotion than upon the other 
incidents of his Freshman year. 



THE BLUE RIVER BANK ROBBERY. 

I. 

" It is not of the least use to argue the question, 
father. Tell me plainly, yes or no, and I will bother 
you no more about it." 

" I cannot indulge you in this, Harry. Indeed, you 
should believe me when I say we cannot afford it." 

Mr. Houghton leaned his head heavily on his hands 
ag he spoke, and seemed to deprecate the displeasure 
of his handsome, impatient son. 

" Very well, sir," said the youth of nineteen, his 
hand quivering, as he rose, with the anger he seemed 
striving to keep out of his words and tones. " I hope 
you will never be sorry for the trifle you have refused 
me to-night. I shall make the trip to Lake George 
next Aveek, nevertheless, if I have to sell my grand- 
father's watch and chain to get the money." 

A half-groan came from the hidden face of Foster 
Houghton, and a reproachful " O Harry ! " from his 
mother, whose eyes had been filling with tears as she 
sat silent through the stormy interview. But the boy 
was angry, and in earnest, and he twisted the chain in 
his waistcoat to give emphasis to the threat. Then as 
he took his cloak and cap from the closet he contin- 
ued : — 



THE BLUE RIVER BANK ROBBERY. 317 

" Yoli need not sit up for me, or leave the door un- 
locked ; I am going to Tinborough with the fellows 
to the strawberry party, and as there will be a dance, 
and the nights are short, I shall wait for daylight to 
come home, if I do not stop and catch a nap at the 
Valley House before starting." 

" Who is going from Elmfield ? " inquired the 
father, more from a desire to show an interest and win 
the boy from his moodiness than any real curiosity. 

" ISTearly everybody of my set," said Harry, with 
something of studied coldness ; " Arthur Brooks and 
Tom Boxham and Frank Pettengill, — and Harrison 
Fry, if you want the whole list." 

His father turned sharply away, but the mother 
spoke appealingly : — 

" If you would cut off your intimacy with Harrison 
Fry, now and forever, I think there are very few 
things your father would refuse you. I have seen his 
evil influence over you ever since he came back from 
the city. He was a bad boy, and will be a bad man." 

" Like myself and other wicked people," said the 
boy, looking at his watch, " Harry Fry is not half so 
black as he is painted. But I am not as intimate with 
him as you fancy ; and as to father, I don't think his 
treatment of me to-night gives him a claim to inter- 
fere with my friendships." 

Henry Houghton shot his shaft deliberately, for he 
knew his father's sensitive nature, in which it would 
rankle cruelly ; and in a moment he was off, bounding 
through the low, open window, and running with fleet 
steps down the gravel sidewalk tow^ard the common. 

The family circle thus divided was that of the 
cashier of the Blue River National Bank of Elmfield. 
Foster Houghton was a man past middle age, and 
older than his years in appearance and in heart. He 



318 STORIES. 

had petted his only son in his childhood enough to 
spoil most boys, and now made the balance even by 
repressing the exuberance of his youth with a sharp- 
ness sometimes no more than just, sometimes queru- 
lous and unreasonable. The boy's grandfjither, old 
Peleg Houghton, who died a year before at ninety and 
over, had almost worshipped Harry, and, on his death- 
bed, had presented his own superb Frodsham watch 
to the lad ; and both father and mother knew he must 
be deeply moved to speak so lightly at parting with it. 

" I fear Henry is getting in a very bad way," said 
Mr. Houghton, gloomily, after a pause in which the 
sharper click of his wife's needles told that her 
thoughts were busy. " He goes to the other church 
too often to begin with. He smokes, after I have 
repeatedly told him how the habit hurt me in my 
boyhood, and what a fight I had to break it off. He 
is altogether too much in Harrison Fry's company. 
He has been twice before to Tinborough, driving 
home across country in the gray of the morning. 
And this project of going alone to Lake George on a 
week's trip is positively ridiculous." 

" Very likely you are the best judge, my dear," said 
Mrs. Houghton. She always began in that way when 
she meant to prove him otherwise. " I fully agree 
with you about that reckless young Fry. But as to 
Harry's going to the brown church, and his visits to 
Tinborough, I think the same cause is at the bottom 
of both. Grace Chamberlain has been singing in the 
choir over there this spring, and now she is visiting 
her aunt at Tinborough. And as to that, she is going 
with her aunt's family to Lake George to sj^end July, 
and I suppose they have expressed a wish to meet him 
there. Grace Chamberlain is a very pretty girl ; and 
Harry is like what you were at his age." 



THE BLUE RIVER BANK ROBBERY. 319 

" Bless my soul, Mary," said the cashier, " then why 
did n't the boy tell me what he was driving at ? 
Chasing across the country after a pretty face is fool- 
ish enough, at his age, but it is not so bad as going 
to a watering-place merely for the fashion of it, like 
some rich old nabob or j^rofessional dandy. If Harry 
had told me he wanted to dangle after Grace Chamber- 
lain, instead of talking in that desperate way about 
the watch, I might have received it differently. There 
is a charm on the chain with my mother's hair, that I 
would n't have go out of the fimily for a fortune." 

Just here the door-bell rang, as if a powerful, ner- 
vous hand were at the knob. Mr. Houghton answered 
the ring, for their one domestic had been called away 
by a message from a sick sister, and the mistress of the 
house was " getting along alone " for a day. So 
when her quick ear told her the visitor was one to see 
her husband on business, she quitted the room to set 
away the milk, and lock up the rear doors of the house 
for the night. 

The caller was Mr. Silas Bixby. He would have 
been a shaqi man in Elmfield estimation who could 
predict the object of one of Silas Bixby's calls, 
though there were few doors in the village at which 
his face was not frequently seen. He was the con- 
stable, but he was also the superintendent of the Sun- 
day school, and the assessor of internal revenue in 
the district, to say nothing of his being the agent of 
two or three sewing-machine firms, and one life-in- 
surance company, and the correspondent of the Tin- 
borough " Trumpet." He owned a farm, and managed 
it at odd hours. He gave some of his winter evenings 
to keeping a writing-school, with which he sometimes 
profitably combined a singing-school, with lucrative 
concerts at the end of the term. He was a clerk of 



320 STORIES. 

the fire company, and never had been absent from a 
fire, though some of his manifold duties kept him 
riding through the neighboring towns in his light gig 
a great deal of the time. He had raised a company and 
commanded it, in the nine months' army of '62. He 
kej)t a little bookstore in one corner of the village 
quadrangle, and managed a very small circulating 
library, with the aid of the oldest of his ten children ; 
and he was equal j^artner in the new factory enteri^rise 
at the Falls. So Mr. Houghton did not venture to 
guess on what errand Mr. Bixby came to see him, and 
showed him to a chair in the twilighted sitting-room, 
with a face composed to decline a request to discount 
a note, or to join with interest in a conversation on 
the Sunday school, or to listen to a rejiort on the new 
fire-engine fund, wdth equal ease and alacrity. 

Mr. Bixby looked about to him to see that nobody 
was in hearing. " You '11 excuse me, I know, 'Squire, if 
I shut the windows, hot* as it is " ; and before his host 
could rise to anticipate him he had suited the action 
to the word. "It's detective business. It's a big 
thing. It's a mighty big thing. Do you know I told 
you, Mr. Houghton, the first of the week, that there 
was dangerous characters about town, and asked you 
to keep your eyes open at the bank. Will you bear 
witness of that?" 

" I remember it very well, Mr. Bixby, and also that 
there has not been a single person in the bank since 
that day, other than our own townspeople and 
friends." 

" That is just it," said Silas Bixby, twisting his 
whiskers reflectively : " they have got some accom- 
plice who knows the neighborhood, and whom we 
don't suspect. But we shall catch him with the rest. 
The fact is, Mr. Houghton, the Blue River National 



THE BLUE EIVER BANK ROBBERY. 321 

Bank is to be robbed to-night. The plot is laid, and 
I have got every thread of it in my hand." 

Foster Hono-hton was one of a class in the villaofe 
who were habitually incredulous as to Silas Bixby's 
achievements, as announced by himself; but there was 
a positiveness and assurance about the constable's 
manner which carried conviction with it, and he did 
not conceal the shock which the news gave him. 

" Just you keep very cool, sir, and I '11 tell you the 
whole story in very few words, for I have got one or 
two things to do before I catch the burglars, and I 
have promised to look into Parson Pettengill's barn 
and doctor his sick horse. There are two men in the 
job, beside somebody in the village here that is work- 
ing with them secretly. You need n't ask me how I 
managed to overhear their plans, for I sha' n't tell ; 
you will read it all in the Tinborough ' Trumpet ' of 
the day after to-morrow. They are regular New 
York cracksmen, and they have been stopping at the 
hotel at the Falls, pretending to be looking at the 
water-power. They come here on purpose to clean 
out the Blue River Bank." 

" Do they mean to blow open the safe ? " inquired 
Mr. Houghton, who was pacing the room. 

"Just have patience, 'Squire," said Silas Bixby. "I 
thought it best to prepare you, and so led you up kind 
o' gradual. They have got false keys to your house 
door and your bedroom door. They are going to 
come in at midnight or an hour after, and gag you 
and your wife, and force you at the mouth of the re- 
volver to go over to the bank and open the combina- 
tion lock. Your help, they say, has gone oft"; and they 
seemed not to be afraid of Henry." 

" Henry has gone to Tinborough," said Mr. Hough- . 
ton, mechanically. 

14* u 



322 STOEIES. 

"I presume tliey knew that too, then," said the 
constable. " They calculate on forty thousand dol- 
lars in the safe, government bonds and all. Their 
team is to be ready on the Tinborough road, and they 
mean to catch the owl train. You they calculate to 
leave, tied hand and foot, on the bank floor, till you 
are found there in the morning." 

Foster Houghton stoj^ped in his rapid walk up and 
down the little room, and took his boots from the 
closet. 

" Fair play, 'Squire," said Bixby, laying a hand on 
the cashier's arm as he sat down and kicked off his 
slippers. " I 've told you the whole story, when I 
might have carried out my plan without telling a 
word. Now what are you going to do ? " 

" Going to order a stout bolt jout on my front door 
at once, and to deposit the bank keys in the safe at 
Felton's store." 

" You will think better of it if you will just sit still 
and hear me through," replied the visitor. "Don't 
you see that will just show our hand to the gang who 
are on the watch, and they will only leave Elmfield 
and rob some other bank and make their fortunes ? 
Moreover, the plot never would be believed in the 
village, and such a way of meeting it would make no 
sensation at all in print. ISTo, Mr. Houghton, you are 
cashier of the bank, and it is your business to jDrotect 
the property. I am constable at Elmfield, and it is 
my duty to capture the burglars. I propose to do it 
in such a way that the whole State shall ring with 
my brilliant management of the matter, and yours, 
too, of course, so far as your part goes. The pro- 
gramme is all complete, and you have only to fall 
in." 

" Well, Mr. Bixby," said the elder gentleman, again 



THE BLUE EIVER BANK ROBBERY. 323 

surrendering to his companion's sujoerior force and 
determination of character ; " and what is the pro- 
gramme ? " 

"As far as you are concerned, simply to remain 
passive " said the rm-al constable. " You are to show 
no knowledge of expecting the visit, and after a proper 
display of reluctance you are to go with the burglars, 
with your keys in your hand. If I were to arrest the 
rascals now, I should have nothing to charge them 
with, and could only frighten them out of town. 
When the bank is entered, the crime is complete. I 
shall be on the watch, with two strong fellows I have 
secured to help me, — men who served in my com- 
pany, stout, afraid of nothing, and not smart enough 
to claim the whole credit when the job is done. 
When you are fairly inside the bank we shall pop out 
from behind the bowling-alley, guard the door, flash 
our lanterns in their faces, and overpower them at 
once. It sounds very short now ; but it will easily 
fill a column in the city papers." 

*' Mr. Bixby," said Foster Houghton, with a good 
deal of deliberate emj^hasis, " I have always thought 
you a man of sense. I think so now. Do you sujd- 
pose I am going to stand quietly by and see a couple 
of rufiians tie a gag in the mouth of my wife, at her 
age, when I know and can prevent it beforehand ? " 

" No, sir, I expect no such thing," said Bixby, not 
at all embarrassed. " I expected like as not you would 
bring up some such objection, so I have provided for 
it in advance. John Fletcher's little girl is very sick ; 
they have gone the rounds of all the folks on our 
street, taking turas watching there ; to-night they 
came to me and said, ' Bixby, can't you find us some- 
body to watch ? ' and I said I knew just the one that 
would be glad to help a neighbor. So I will deliver 



324 STORIES. 

the message to Mrs. Houghton, and you need n't have 
a mite of anxiety about her, up there as safe and com- 
fortable as if she were twenty miles away." 

While her husband yet hesitated Mrs. Houghton 
re-entered the room ; and Bixby, quick to secure an 
advantage, was ready at the moment with his petition. 

"Good evening, Mrs. Houghton, Been waiting 
very patient for you to come in. I called to see if 
you felt able and willing to set up to-night along with 
John Fletcher's little girl. The child don't get any 
better ; and Mrs. Fletcher, she 's just about sick abed 
herself, with care and worry." 

" You know I am always ready to help a neighbor 
in such trouble," said the lady, graciously, with the 
prompt acquiescence which people in the country give 
to such calls. " And now I think of it, Mr. Bixby, I 
have another call to make on your street. I think I 
will walk up with you, and so get around to Fletcher's 
at nine o'clock. My husband has several letters to 
write, so he will not miss me." 

Foster Houghton sat in a sort of maze while fate 
thus arranged affairs for him, though they tended to 
a consummation which was far from welcome to his 
mind. His wife went out for her smelling-salts, her 
spectacles, and her heavy shawl ; and Bixby snatched 
the brief opportunity. 

"I have told you everything, 'Squire, that you need 
to know. Keep your mind easy and your head cool, 
and the whole thing may be done as easy as turning 
your hand over. Remember it is the only way to save 
the bank, and catch the men that may have robbed a 
dozen banks. Do not stir out of the house again this 
evening, or you will excite suspicion and ruin the 
game. Between twelve and two you may expect 
your company ; and rely upon me in hiding close to 



THE BLUE RIVER BANK ROBBERY. 325 

the bank. Mum is the word." For Mrs. Houghton 
was descending the stairs. 

" Come in again when you come back, Bixby ; can't 
you? " said the cashier, still loath to close so hasty and 
so singular a bargain. 

" Kot for the world," replied the constable. " It 
would expose our hand at once, and spoil the trick. 
Now, IVIrs. Houghton, I 'm raally proud to be the beau 
to such a sprightly young belle." 

And so, with a word of farewell, they were off, and 
Foster Houghton sat alone in the house with his 
secret. 

He was not a coward, but a man of peace by tem- 
perament and training, and the enterprise in which 
he had been enlisted was both foreign and distasteful 
to him. How many incidents might occur, not set 
down in Bixby's 2:)rogramme, to make the night's 
work both dangerous and disagreeable ! His very 
loneliness made the prospect seem doubly unpleasant. 
A dozen times, as he sat musing over it, he put forth 
his hand for his boots with intent to go out and frus- 
trate the robbery in his own way, regardless of Bixby's 
schemes of capture and glory. As many times he fell 
back in his easy-chair, thinking now that he was bound 
in honor by his tacit agreement with the constable, 
and again that the whole story was nothing but the 
fruit of the officers fertile imagination, and that only 
the inventor should make himself ridiculous by his 
credulity. Now he wished his wife were at home to 
make the waiting moments pass more quickly ; then 
that Harry were there to give the aid of his daring 
and the stimulus of his boyish enthusiasm in the 
strange emergency. And sometimes the old man's 
thoughts wandered, in spite of the excitement of the 
hour, to his boy, dancing away the night at Tin- 



o 



26 STORIES. 



borousjh. He recalled his anxieties over his son's 
dissipations, his associates, his growing recklessness of 
manner, his extravagant tastes, the look of hard de- 
fiance in his face but an hour or two before. His 
heart yearned over the lad in spite of his wild ways, 
like David's over Absalom, and he resolved to try the 
mother's method, and imagine excuses, and replace 
harshness with indulgence, hereafter. The village 
bell clanged out from the steeple close by, and Foster 
Houghton clropi3ed the thread of his revery with a 
start, and went back to the robbery again. Clearly 
he was getting too nervous. He must do something 
to shake it off. 

" I '11 get Harry's revolver," he thought, with little 
purpose what he should do with it ; and he took the 
lamj^, and went up stairs to the boy's empty room. 
The drawers were thrown open in a confusion which 
offended the cashier's neat prejudices acquired in the 
profession. He knew where the pistol was kept, but 
its box was empty; and he exclaimed under his 
breath, — 

" That is a boy all over. He goes to Tinborough 
to dance and eat strawberries, and he carries a pistol, 
loaded I dare say to the muzzle. It is ten to one he 
will shoot himself or his sweetheart before the even- 
ing is over." 

As Mr. Houghton fumbled over the bureau his hand 
encountered a covered flask. Even his unaccustomed 
nose was able to recognize its contents as whiskey; 
and his regret at such a discovery in his son's room 
was lost in the joy with which he hailed a stimulant 
so greatly needed to put his nerves in condition for 
the events to come. Perhaps he forgot how long it 
was since he had called in such a re-enforcement ; per- 
haps his hand shook ; perhaps he thought the occasion 



THE BLUE EIVER BANK ROBBERY. 327 

required a large dose. He took a hearty one; and 
when he was down stairs again the difficulties in the 
way of bagging the burglars vanished fi-om his mind. 
He was a young man once more, and entered into the 
romance of Bixby's j^lot, he said to himself, as enthu- 
siastically as Harry would have done. He paced the 
room with an elastic stride very different from the ner- 
vous, wavering step with which he had heard the news. 
Bixby and himself, he thought, would be enough to 
overjDower any three burglars. Then his head was 
heavy, and he felt drowsy. To be in proper condition 
for the emergency, he reflected, he needed all the 
sleep he could get. The resolve was one to be exe- 
cuted as promjDtly as formed ; and a few minutes later 
the cashier had locked the door, fastened the lower 
windows, and was snugly in bed. 

A gentle tinkle of the door-bell aroused him again be- 
fore, as it seemed to him, he had fairly closed his eyes. 
" The robbers at last ! " he thought ; and then he re- 
buked himself for the absurdity of supposing that a 
burglar would announce his coming by the door-bell. 
" It is Bixby, of course," he said to himself, " come to 
own he was a fool and the story all nonsense." But 
he paused before he turned the key, and said in his 
fiercest tone, " Who is there ? " 

"It is only me, Foster," said the sweet, familiar 
voice of his wife, without ; and when he had admitted 
her she told him, in her quick way, that after she had 
watched with the child an hour or two, a professional 
nurse who had been sent for a week before had arrived 
unexpectedly, and that she had been glad to give up 
her vigil and come home. 

Foster Houghton rarely did anything without think- 
ing twice about it, if not more ; so it came about that, 
while he balanced in his mind the 2^ros and cons as to 



328 STORIES. 

revealing to his wife the secret which Bixby had con- 
fided to him, and thus giving her a fright in advance 
for what might prove to be a false alarm after all, the 
tired lady went sound asleep ; and thus the scale was 
turned in favor of reticence. Perhaps the husband's 
continued drowsiness contributed to the resolve also ; 
for his eyelids still drooped with strange obstinacy, 
and an influence more powerful than even the apjore- 
hension of danger transformed his terrors into dreams 
again. 

II. 

One, two, rang out from the belfrey on the breath- 
less June night, already heavy with the rising fog 
from the river. Foster Houghton found himself broad 
awake as he counted the strokes ; but even while he 
thought it was the clock that had disturbed him, he 
felt a cold, hard ring of steel against his temple, and 
saw through the darkness a man by his bedside. 

" Not one word, or you will never ntter another." 

He noted the voice even in the whirl of the mo- 
ment, and knew that it was strange to him. He 
turned towards his wife, and saw that there was a 
man by her side also, with revolver aimed ; felt, rather 
than saw, that she had waked when he did, and was 
waiting, self-j^ossessed, for whatever was to come. As 
the darkness yielded to his eyes, he was aware of a 
third figure, standing at the window. 

" Perfect quiet, remember, and we will tell you what 
is to be done," said the same voice, cool, firm, with an 
utterance entirely distinct yet hardly louder than a 
whisper. " You have nothing to fear if you obey or- 
ders. A knife is ready for the heart of each of you if 
you disobey. The lady has simply to lie still ; as she 



THE BLUE RIVER BANK ROBBERY. 329 

will be bound to the bed and her mouth stopped, 
that will be easy ; and the gag is very gentle and will 
not hurt if she does not resist. Mr. Houghton will 
rise, put on his trousers, and go with us to the bank, 
always in range of this pistol and in reach of this 
blade. The keys are already in my pocket. Number 
Three, will you scratch a match that I may helj) the 
gentleman to his clothes." 

The figure in the window stepped noiselessly for- 
ward at the summons. As the blue flame lighted the 
room Foster Houghton observed that his visitors were 
all masked with black silk, through which a narrow 
slit permitted vision. He noticed that their feet were 
shod with listing, so thick that a step made no audible 
sound uj^on the straw carpet. He noticed that long, 
thin, black cloaks covered their forms to the ankles, 
so that no details of clothing could be noted to iden- 
tify them. And while he observed these things, not 
venturing to stir until the threatening muzzle was 
withdrawn from his face, he felt his hand tightly 
clutched by the fingers of his wife beneath the cover- 
lid. 

Years of familiar association had made him apt at 
interpreting his ^\afe's thoughts and feelings, without 
the aid of the spoken word. Either by some peculiar 
expression in the grasp itself, or by that subtle mag- 
netism which we know exists among the unknown 
forces, he felt that there was something more than the 
natural terror of the moment, more than the courage 
of a heart ever braver than his own, more than sym- 
pathy for his own supposed dismay, in his wife's 
snatch at his hand. More alarmed, at the instant, by 
the shock thus given him than by the more i:)alpable 
danger, he turned his head towards his wife again, and 
in her eyes and in the direction they gave to his saw 
all that she had seen. 



330 STORIES. 

The masked figure in the centre of the room, in 
producing a match, had unwittingly thrown back one 
side of its cloak. By the sickly flame just turning to 
white, Foster Houghton saw, thus revealed, the twisted 
chain he had played with in his OAvn boyhood, the 
golden crescent with his mother's hair, the massive 
key with its seal, just as he had seen them on his 
boy's breast at sunset. In an instant more a taper 
was lighted; the curtain of the cloak was drawn 
together again. But the secret it had exposed was 
impressed ujDon two hearts, as if they had been seared 
with iron. As a drowning man thinks of the crowded 
events of a lifetime, Foster Houghton thought, in that 
moment of supreme agony, of a dozen links of cir- 
cumstantial evidence, — the boy's baffled desire for 
money, his angry words, his evil associates, his miss- 
ing revolver, his deliberate explanation of a night- 
long absence, his intimate knowledge of the affairs of 
the bank, except the secret combination of the lock 
which he had often teased for in vain. Two things 
were stamped upon his brain together; and he was 
thankful that his wife could know the horror of but 
one of them. 

His own son was engaged in a plot to rob the bank, 
by threats of assassination against those who gave 
him life. 

He himself was irrevocably enlisted in a plot to 
capture the robbers, and so to bring his boy to infamy 
and a punishment worse than death. 

The discovery compels a pause in the narrative. 
It made none in the actual progress of events. The 
man who had spoken motioned the cashier to rise, 
and assisted his trembling hands in covering his limbs 
with one or two articles of clothing. The one on 
the opposite side of the bed, moving quickly and 



THE BLUE RIVER BANK ROBBERY. 331 

deftly as a sailor, bound Mrs. Houghton where she 
lay, without a touch of rudeness or indignity beyond 
what his task made necessary. A knotted hand- 
kerchief from his pocket was tied across her mouth. 
The third figure stood at the window, either to keep 
a watch without or to avoid seeing what took place 
within; but Foster Houghton's eyes could discern 
no tremor, no sign of remorse or hesitation, in its 
bearing. 

" Now, cashier," said the one voice which alone had 
been heard since the stroke of the clock, " you will 
have to consider yourself ready, for we have no time 
to spare. I feel sure you know what is healthy for 
you, but still I will tie this rope round your wrist 
to save you from any dangerous temptation to try a 
side street. Number Two, you will go below, and see 
that the coast is clear." 

With one more look at his wife's eyes, in which he 
saw outraged motherly affection where the strangers 
saw only fright and pain, Foster Houghton suffered 
himself to be led from the room. One of the robbers 
had preceded him ; one held him tightly by the wrist; 
one, the one whose presence gave the scene its treble 
terror, remained only long enough to extinguish the 
taper and to lock the door. The outer door was fas- 
tened behind them also ; and then the noiseless little 
procession (for the cashier had been permitted to put 
on his stockings only) filed along the gravel walk, 
through the pitchy blackness which a mist gives to a 
moonless night, towards the solitary brick building 
occupied by the Blue River National Bank. 

They passed the school-house where Foster Hough- 
ton had carried his boy a dozen years before with a 
bright new j^rimer clutched in frightened little fingers; 
then the desolate old mansion of his own father, 



332 STORIES. 

where the lad had been petted and worshi23ped as 
fervently as at home ; a little farther on, the church, 
where the baby had been baptized, and where the 
youth had chafed beneath distasteful sermons, — its 
white steeple lost in the upper darkness ; and, a few 
paces beyond, the academy, within whose walls the 
cashier had listened with such pride to Harry's elo- 
quent declamation of "The Return of Regulus to 
Carthage" on the last Commencement day. He 
thought of these things as he 2)assed, though so 
many other thoughts surged in his mind; and he 
wondered if another heart beside his own was beset 
with such reminiscences on the silent journey. 

Before they had reached the bank the man who had 
gone in advance rejoined them. 

" It is all serene," he said, in a low tone, but with 
a coarser voice and utterance than his confederate's ; 
"nothing more than a cat stirring. I have unhitched 
the mare, and we should be off in fifteen minutes." 

" All right, Number Two," said the leader. " The 
swag will be in the buggy in less time. Cashier, you 
are a man of prudence, I know. If you work that 
combination skilfully and promptly, not a hair of 
your head shall be harmed. If you make a blunder 
that costs us a minute, not only will this knife be at 
home in your heart, but we shall stop on our way 
back and set your cottage on fire. Our retreat will 
be covered ; and you know the consequences there be- 
fore the alarm will rouse anybody. I have sworn to 
do it." 

Foster Houghton fancied he saw a shudder in the 
slighter figure beside him ; but it might have been a 
l^uff of wind across the.long drapery. 

" O, blow the threats ! " said Number Two. " The 
man values his life, and he is going to open the safe 



THE BLUE RIVER BANK ROBBERY. 333 

quicker tlian he ever did before. Open the door, 
young one, and let 's be about it." 

The robber who had not yet opened his lips, 
and whose every motion the cashier still watched 
stealthily, stepped forward to the bank door ; and as 
he drew a key from under his cloak the prisoner 
caught another glimpse of the chain he could have 
sworn to among a thousand. 

The door swung open. The cashier's heart was in 
his throat. He had not heard a sound of Bixby ; but 
he knew 'the village constable too well to fear, or 
hope, that he might have given up the chase. All 
four entered the building ; but before the door could 
be closed behind them there was a shout, a cry of 
dismay, a rush of heavy feet, a flash of light in a 
lantern which gleamed but a moment before it was 
extinguished, the confused sound of blows and oaths, 
and the breaking of glass, punctuated by the sharp 
report of a pistol. Foster Houghton could never 
give a clearer account of a terrible minute in which 
his consciousness seemed partly benumbed. He took 
no part in the struggle, but seemed to be pushed out- 
side the door; and there, as the tumult within began 
to diminish, Silas Bixby came hurriedly to him, drag- 
ging a masked figure by the shoulder. 

" Houghton, you must help a little. We have got 
the better of 'em, and my men are holding the two 
big fellows down. But the fight is not out of them 
yet, and you must hold this little one three minutes 
while I help to tie their hands. Just hold this pistol 
to his head, and he will rest very easy." 

Even while he sj^oke Bixby was inside the door 
again, and the gleam of light which followed showed 
that he had recovered his lantern and meant to do his 
work thoroughly. 



334 STOEIES. 

Foster Houghton's left hand had been guided to the 
collar of his cai^tive, and the revolver liad been thrust 
into his right. There was no question of the com- 
posure of the robber now. He panted and sobbed 
and shook, and made no effort to tear himself from 
the feeble grasjo that confined him. 

If the cashier had been irresolute all his life, he did 
not waver for an instant now. He did not query 
within himself what was his duty, or what was pru- 
dent, or what his wife would advise, or what the bank 
directors would tliink. 

" Harry," he whispered, hoarsely, his lips close to 
the mask, " I know you." 

The shrinking figure gave one great sob. Foster 
Houghton went right on without pausing. 

"Bixby does not know you, and there is time to 
escape yet. I shall fire this pistol in the air. Run 
for your life to your horse there, and push on to Tin- 
borough. You can catch the train. May God for- 
give you." 

The figure caught the hand which had released its 
hold as the words were spoken and kissed it. Then, 
turning back, as if upon a sudden impulse, the robber 
murmured something which could not be understood, 
and thrust into the cashier's hand a mass of chilly 
metal which his intuition rather than his touch recog- 
nized as Peleg Houghton's watch and chain. He had 
presence of mind enough to conceal it in his pocket, 
and then he fired his pistol, and he heard the sound 
of flying feet and rattling wheels as Silas Bixby ac- 
costed liim. 

"What in thunder! did he wriggle away from ye? 
why did n't you sing out sooner?" 

"I think I am getting faint. In Heaven's name 
go quick to my house and release my wife, and tell 



THE BLUE EIVER BANK BOBBERY. 335 

her all is safe. The fright of these shots will kill 
her." 

Foster Houghton sunk in a swoon even as he 
spoke, and only the quick arm of Silas Bixby saved 
him from a fall on the stone steps. 

" See here, boys," said he. " If you have got those 
fellows tied up tight, one of you take 'Squire Hough- 
ton and bring him to, and I '11 go over to his house 
and untie his wife, before I start after that pesky little 
rascal that has got away. If I had 'a' suj^posed he 
would dare to risk the pistol I should have hung on 
to him myself Mike, you just keep your revolver 
cocked, and if either of those men more than winks, 
shoot him where he lies." 

Having thus disposed of his forces, and provided 
for the guard of the prisoners and the restoration of 
the disabled, the commander was off at a run. Half 
Elmfield seemed to have been awakened by the shots, 
and he was met by a half-dozen lightly clad men and 
boys whom he sent on this errand and that, — to open 
the lock-up under the engine-house, to harness horses 
for the pursuit, — vouchsafing only very curt replies to 
their eager questions as to what had haiDpened. He 
was exasperated on arriving at Foster Houghton's 
dwellino; to find the door locked and the windows 
fastened. So he raised a stentorian shout of, " It 's 
— all — right — Mrs. — Houghton ! Robbers — caught 
— and — nobody — hurt " ; separating his words 
carefully to insure being understood ; and then scud 
at full sj^eed back toward the bank again. He met 
half-way an excited, talkative little gi'ouj^, the central 
figure of which was the cashier of the bank, restored 
to life, but still white as death, and supported by 
friendly hands. Assured that Houghton himself was 
now able to release his wife, Bixby ran on to the 



336 STORIES. 

green, and in five minutes more was settled in his gig, 
and urging his cheerful little bay Morgan over the 
road to Tinborough, mentally putting into form his 
narrative for the " Trumjoet " as he went. 



III. 

Thus it came about that it was Foster Houghton 
himself who unloosed his wife's bonds, — bending his 
gray head, as he did so, to print a kiss of sorrow and 
sympathy on her wrinkled cheek, and leaving a tear 
there. 

" He has escaped," he said, " and is on the road to 
the station." 

" Will he not be overtaken ? " 

" I think not. He has a fair start, and knows what 
is at stake ; and the train passes through before day- 
light." 

Then the woman's heart, which had borne her 
bravely up so far, gave way, and she broke into 
terrible sobs ; and the husband who would comfort 
her was himself overcome by the common grief, and 
could not sjDeak a word. Silently they suffered to- 
gether, pressing hands, until the entering light of 
dawn reminded them that even this day had duties 
and perhaps new phases of sorrow. They could hear 
the quick steps of passers evidently fall of excitement 
over the event of the night, and talking all together. 
They could not be long left undisturbed. As they 
dressed, Foster Houghton — unable or reluctant to 
describe in any detail the scene at the bank, as his 
wife was to ask him about it — suddenly encoun- 
tered in his pocket the watch, entangled in its chain. 

" He gave me this, and a kiss," he said, every word 



THE BLUE RIVER BANK ROBBERY. 337 

a sob ; and Mary Houghton pressed it to her heart. 
Then, as a quick step sounded on the j^orch, she has- 
tily thrust it into a drawer. 

" What sliall we say ? " she asked. 

" I do not know. Heaven will direct us for the 
best," he replied. 

The step did not pause for ceremony, but came in 
and up the stairs as if on some pressing errand. Then 
the door opened, and Harry Houghton ran in, — his 
curls wet with the fog of the morning, his cheeks rosy 
as from a rapid ride, his eyes dancing with excite- 
ment. 

His father and mother stood speechless and bewil- 
dered, filled with a new alarm. But the boy was too 
busy with his own thoughts to observe his recej^tion. 
Thick and fast came his words, questions Avaiting for 
no answers, and narrative never pausing for comment. 

" What is this Bixby shouted to me when I met him 
about robbers ? And what is there such a crowd at 
the bank about ? Did I come sooner than you ex- 
pected me ? We had a glorious time at Tinborough, 
you know, and when we were through dancing I de- 
cided to drive home at once. And a few miles out I 
met Silas in his gig driving like mad, and he shouted 
at me till he was out of hearing, but I could not catch 
one word in a dozen. But before anything else, I want 
to beg your pardon for my roughness last night. I am 
old enough to know better, but I was angry when I 
spoke ; and I have been thoroughly ashamed of my- 
self ever since. You will forgive and forget, fathei', 
won't you ? — Hallo, I did n't suppose you felt so badly 
about it, mother darling." 

Mary Houghton was clasping her son's neck, crying 
as she had not cried that night. But the cashier, 
slower in seeing his way, as usual, stood passing 

\0 V 



338 STORIES. 

his hand across his brows for a moment. Then he 
spoke : — 

" Henry, where is yom- grandfather's watch?" 

" There, did you miss it so quickly ? I meant to 
get it back before you discovered it was gone. I will 
have it after breakfist. The fact is, I was not myself 
Avhen I left the house last night, with temper, and 
Plarrison Fry offered me two hundred dollars for it, 
to be paid next week, and in my temper I let him 
take it to bind the bargain. I was crazy for money, 
and I sold him my pistol too. I regretted about the 
watch before I had fairly quit the village; but he 
broke his engagement and did not go with us to Tin- 
borough after all ; so I have had no chance to get it 
back again till now." 

" Harrison Fry ! " exclaimed Foster Houghton ; and 
his hands clasped and his lips moved in thankful 
prayer. 

" But if you don't tell me what is all this excitement 
in the village, I shall run out and find out for myself," 
cried the boy, impatiently. " You never would stand 
here asking me questions about trifles, if the bank had 
been broken open in the night." 

Foster Houghton j^ut his hands on his boy's shoul- 
ders and kissed him, as he had not done since his son's 
childhood. Then he took from its hiding-place the 
Avatch and hung it on Harry's neck, his manifest 
emotion checking the expression of the lad's aston- 
ishment. 

" There is much to tell you, Harry," he said, " and 
perhaps you will think I have to ask your forgiveness 
rather than you mine. But my heart is too full for a 
word till after prayers. Let us go down." 

Then the three went down the stairs, the mother 
clinging to the boy's hand, which she had never relin- 



THE BLUE EIVER BANK EOBBERY. 339 

quished since her first embrace. Foster Houghton 
took the massive Bible, as was his daily custom, and 
read the chaj^ter upon which rested the mark left the 
morning before ; but his voice choked and his eyes 
filled again when he came to the lines : — 

" For this my son was dead and is alive again ; he 
was lost and is found." 

Silas Bixby galloped into Tinborough two minutes 
late for the owl train ; and the fugitive was too sharp 
to be caught by the detectives who were j^ut on the 
watch for him by telegraphic messages. In a few 
hours all Elmfield had discovered that Harrison Fry 
was missing, and had made up its mind that he was 
the escaped confederate in the burglary. The Bhie 
River National Bank offered a reward for him, but 
he has never yet been found. The zealous consta- 
ble found compensation for the loss of one prisoner 
in the discovery that the other two were a couple 
of the most skilful and slippery of the metropolitan 
cracksmen, known among other aliases as Gentle- 
man Graves and Toffey Ben. Silas Bixby's cour- 
age and discretion received due tribute from counsel, 
press, and public during the trial that ensued the 
next month in the Tinborough court-house; and 
by some influence it was so managed that Mrs. 
Houghton was not called to the stand, nor was 
Foster Houghton closely questioned in regard to 
the manner in which the third robber had escaped 
from his custody on the steps of the bank. 

Harry Houghton went to Lake George that sum- 
mer, starting a day after the departure of Grace 
Chamberlain; but this year they go together, and 
the programme of the tour includes Niagara and 
Quebec. 



340 STOEIES. 



OUR BREAKFAST AT THE ASTOR. 

The newspapers have had a report lately that the 
Astor House was to go the way of all things down 
town, in New York, and be converted into profitable 
but uncomfortable stores. I believe they have con- 
tradicted the rumor since, and given the delightful, 
homelike, Bostonish old hostelry at least three years 
more of life; but I shall still act upon my original im- 
pulse, conceived wdien I first heard the painful story, 
and relieve my conscience of a weight it has carried 
altogether too long, by unburdening myself of a certain 
incident in the secret history of the steady old inn, for 
the benefit of all concerned and the rest of mankind. 

It was in the winter of 1862-63, and I was engaged 
as army correspondent on a Boston paper of enter- 
prise, vivacity, and entire respectability combined. If 
this description leaves any curious reader in the dark 
as to the identity of the paper, he will have to turn 
back to the files in the Athenaeum, and see which 
it was that had the lead in a brilliant though sad 
account of the battle of Fredericksburg, — for it was 
with that very account in manuscript nearly com- 
plete in my pocket that I was travelling post-haste 
through !N"ew York, on the occasion wdiich I am about 
to describe. 

I have intimated that I beat all the other newspaper 
men in the field on this occasion ; and the details of 
how I did it might form materials for another story, 
for there is no room for them in this. After confused, 
bewildering hours, I hardly know how many, of des- 
perate fighting, beginning in high hopes and ending in 
darkest desj^air, and on my jDart of rapid writing, page 



OUR BREAKFAST AT THE ASTOR. 341 

after page of my note-book filling up with the diary of 
the moments on which hung the fate of the army and of 
the war, as I sat on the stej^s of the Phillips House and 
gazed across the river with my glass between each 
sentence, — at last came the decision for retreat. My 
good fortune consisted in hearing of this climax of ill- 
fortune a little in advance of any of the other eager 
but weary journalists who were sleeping near me at 
the moment. It did not take long to map out my 
plans ; and then came a night ride across that dread- 
ful sea of fathomless mud to Acquia Creek, the horrors 
of which I could not describe if I would, but at the 
close of which I sold my horse to a Yankee sutler near 
the wharf for a cup of coffee, five dollars, and a rubber 
blanket. Perhaps some notion of the ordeal of the 
ride may be obtained from that fact; for he was a 
good steed in the beginning, and I owed him gratitude 
for many hard rides successfully accomj^lished before, 
on the Peninsula and in the Valley of Virginia. He 
never did the newspaper which paid for and the 
rider who trusted him a better service than his last ; 
for just as I swallowed the scalding, milkless, black cof- 
fee which restored my own strength, and just as he sank 
steaming in the yellow puddle which fronted the sut- 
ler's tent, I learned that a hospital transport with some 
of the wounded of the first day's fighting was at that 
moment leaving the wharf for Washington. 

A quick run brought me on board a minute before 
the plank was withdrawn ; but it took a large share of 
the money I had about me to persuade a Pennsylvania 
Dutchman, who happened to be sergeant of the guard, 
that I was not an able-bodied, demoralized straggler 
from the front, but one of those unrecognized gentry 
who conquered a right to go into all forbidden places 
by the mystic word "Press," or when that failed, as 



342 STORIES. 

now, by the talismanic greenback. During the day 
which followed, we sj^ed up the Potomac — a groan- 
ing, writhing cargo of agony, borne np by patriotism, 
tended by an agent of the Sanitary Commission and 
myself, and alternately mutilated and neglected by a 
drunken surgeon who swore at our interference as he 
staggered from a drink in the captain's cabin to a mur- 
der on the noisome, crowded deck. Doing what I 
could, I still found time to attend to the duties of my 
own profession, and made up a clear, tei^se, and graphic 
account of the events on the Rappahannock for tele- 
graphing, besides obtaining the name, regiment, and 
condition of every wounded and dead man on board 
the steamer. It was late in the afternoon, and in that 
drizzly December day already quite dark, when our 
slow steamer touched the Sixth Street wharf in Wash- 
ington. I calculated the time before the departure of 
the ISTew York train to a fraction of a minute, and 
found I had none to spare, — so broke my rule in re- 
gard to Washington hackmen, and in a minute or less 
from the landing had chartered a carriage with a 
costly proviso that no other occuj^ant was to be waited 
for, and was trundling through the mud toward the 
Avenue. 

I was lucky enough to find our resident Washington 
correspondent in his office, or " bureau," as the boys 
were absurd enough to call it in their despatches ; and 
he was keen enough to comprehend the situation in a 
moment, to inform me that by the difference between 
army time and Washington clocks I had fifteen min- 
utes less than I supposed, to take my precious despatch 
of exclusive intelligence for the telegraph wires with 
less than a dozen words of explanation, and to send 
me off to the railroad station at the full speed of my 
carriage, after a halt fabulously brief. His cool alacrity, 



OUR BREAKFAST AT THE ASTOR. 343 

unperturbed either by newspaper victories or national 
defeats, quite took away my breath ; and it was not 
till we turned the corner near the station that I re- 
membered that one of the two things I had to say 
to him was, to request the loan of enough money to 
make me sure of having sufficient to get home with, as 
my hasty departure from Falmouth and the unexpected 
draft at the landing had reduced my immediate re- 
sources to a very low ebb. 

My memory came quite too late to 'turn back, how- 
ever ; and as we arrived at the station I paid my driver 
his quickly earned five dollars with more of a sigh 
than I had ever wasted over the expenditure of office 
money before. I had but three fives and some small 
change left ; and as I recalled the price of a Boston 
ticket, it needed no long process in mental arithmetic 
to convince me that, hungry as I was, my twenty-four 
hours' journey must be made on very short commons. 
Poverty sharpens the wits ; and this temporary im- 
poverishment sharpened mine, as I ran to the ticket- 
office, to such an extent that I bought a ticket to 'New 
York only, instead of for the whole journey, remember- 
ing that the price of the through ticket included 
seventy-five cents for a coach-ride through New York, 
while the distance might be traversed by a street-car 
for one tenth of the sum. I jumped on board the 
starting train not a moment too soon ; and my first 
act after finding a seat was to make a thorough survey 
of the financial situation. 

Six dollars were first thrust resolutely out of the 
way, in an inner compartment of my wallet, for my 
fare to Boston ; and the balance which remained for 
the purchase of commissary supplies, after several 
countings over of the fractional currency, — then 
rather a novelty, and fresh and new from the press, — 



344 STORIES. 

amounted to precisely ninety-five cents. Any wild 
desire which might have existed to expend the 
whole in the luxmy of a berth in a sleeping-car was 
crushed by the remembrance that the j^rice was one 
dollar ; and I solaced myself with the thought that I 
was tired enough to sleep soundly and comfortably 
anywhere. There was a refreshment saloon attached 
to the night train at that time ; but as I knew from old 
experience that the smallest viand on its counter would 
exhaust my entire resources, I resolved to insult my 
hunger with an apple, and then smother it in sleep, 
and so reserve the bulk of my fortune for the next 
day, when my aj)petite would be more peremptory 
and could be more economically satisfied. So I 
supped stoically on the mealy fruit which the basket 
of a passing vender supplied, and easily put myself 
to sleep with variations on a formula something 
like this : — 

Apple 05 

Horse-car fare in New York . . . .06 

Newspaper . . . . . . . 05 

Breakfast (coffee, boiled eggs, and buckwheat 

cakes) 30 

Dinner at Springfield, (baked beans and ale) 45 

Margin for accidents and contingent expenses . 04 

95 

My very neat and symmetrical j)lan was not des- 
tined to be carried out beyond the first item : for as 
I opened my eyes in the ferry-boat at Jersey City (I 
had contrived, in some mysterious way, to efiTect a 
change of cars then necessary at Philadelphia without 
awakening to consciousness, beyond that of an un- 
usually hideous dream) my slow-returning senses 
were jogged by a vision of charming Sallie Burton of 



OUR BREAKFAST AT THE ASTOR. 345 

Boston, sitting on the opj^osite side of the cabin, 
Avrapped up to her eyes in shawls and furs, yet look- 
ing as lovely as ever, and — though she must have 
travelled all night in the same train with myself — 
as fi-esh and blooming as when I bade her good by 
the previous summer on the piazza of the Rock- 
land House. 

She saw me almost as soon as I discovered her, and 
the genuine joy and tenderness that mingled in the 
tones of her startled little cry, " O Robert ! " as it 
blended with my " By Jove ! Sallie," made me feel 
as if it were the news of a glorious victory instead of 
that of a tragic defeat that I was carrying home to 
Boston. I had been wooing the dear girl furiously in 
those halcyon days at Cohasset, and had just begun to 
dare to hope of winning her, when the order came 
from the office sending me post-haste at an hour's 
notice to join McClellan on the Chickahominy. I had 
dallied with my fate ever since, dreading to risk my 
future happiness on a letter, and forcing myself to be 
content with the sweet dreams of Sallie's face which 
came to me night after night as I shared the soldier's 
bivouac, and strove with every nerve to gain that pro- 
motion and distinction which should give me a better 
title to ask her for heart and hand when the day 
should come. Xow, her sudden appearance at the 
very moment when I seemed to have got so near the 
goal, the evident emotion with which she met nie so 
unexpectedly, seemed like a taste of Paradise. 

But the cabin of a ferry-boat is hardly the place for 
outward manifestations of ecstatic sentiment, and I 
dare say our fellow-voyagers across the bay overheard 
our conversation without discovering that either of us 
was different from ordinary mortals. In the words of 
somebody or other in one of Mother Goose's dramas, 
15* 



346 STORIES. 

it was " How do yoii do, and how do you do, and how 
do you do agam," and then it was : — 

" But how in the name of wonder came you here, 
and where did you come from ? " 

" Why, I have been to Washington to see the open- 
ing of Congress and visit my cousins, and am on my 
way home. But how came you here . " 

My own story need not be recap) ulated ; but its 
main fact, that I was bound to Boston, and on the same 
train with the young lady herself, elicited an " O, 
how nice," that was the sweetest music and most ex- 
quisite poetry to my ears. Of cours^, I took posses- 
sion of the satchel, waterproof, chtoks, ticket, and 
other imj^edimenta of my fair fellow-traveller at once, 
with the air of a regularly appointed guardian. A 
glance at the long series of couj^ons which formed the 
ticket, however, reminded me that of course Miss 
Burton was ticketed through to Boston, and that her 
natural means of crossing the metropolis was by the 
lumbering coach which stood before us as we quitted 
the ferry-boat, and into which an unsavory Irish 
woman, with half a dozen whimpering children, was 
already crowding her way. 

"O Sallie," said I, with a sudden inspiration, 
whether of good or evil I have never yet quite de- 
cided, " let us not ride in that disagreeable thing. 
We can easily walk to Broadway and take a car, and 
then we can stoj) and take breakfast at some better 
place than those horrible restaurants near the depot." 

" Certainly, I would just as lief, if you think it 
would be pleasanter, Mr. Delton," said she, without a 
moment's hesitation. "I sup^oose there is plenty of 
time, and I am sure I am hungry." 

I believe Sallie thought I was moody and offended 
during that walk through Courtlandt Street, because 



OUR BREAKFAST AT THE ASTOR. 347 

she had called- me by my suniame ; but I hardly 
noticed the lap-^e, for the memory of the state of my 
pocket, forgott( n in the sound sleej) and sudden sur- 
prise, just then struck me, as it were, between the 
eyes ; and no.ie of the mental arithmetic I could 
muster could (^^'eate a satisfactory example with the 
materials I had'at command. Six more cents out of 
my ninety, foi a double car-fare, left only seventy- 
eight for the day's provision for two people, putting 
the longed-for newspaper out of the question as an 
unjustifiable luxury ; and though such a sum might 
be an abundar-^ce in Pekin, with my knowledge of 
New York rectaurants and railway dining-rooms I 
could not contrive a practicable way of making the 
two ends meet. 

Some matter-of-fact reader may growl that of course 
the young lady had money enough, and that all I had 
to do was to borrow a few dollars of her for a day, and 
be at once relieved of all anxiety. But I think those 
who have been in the j^eculiar condition of mind and 
heart that I was in then, feeling, as I did, that a most 
momentous crisis was very near at hand, will admit 
that such a course of procedure was quite out of the 
question. I was not sure enough of my fate to A^eri- 
ture any risks, however slight ; and the risk implied 
to my mind, in confiding to the being who held my 
happiness in her hands that I was two hundred miles 
from home with only ninety cents in available funds, 
would have been flital to all my hopes of success. 

No ; the exigency of the hour demanded a concep- 
tion and execution almost Napoleonic ; and by the 
time we had reached Broadway I was ready for the 
test. 

" I think, Sallie," said I, as cool as I 'had seen Gen- 
eral Burnside forty-eight hours before on the hill over- 



348 STORIES. 

looking Fredericksburg, — "I think, on the whole, we 
had better breakfast at the Astor House. It is quite 
near, very comfortable, and you will have a chance to 
get thoroughly warmed before taking the horse-car." 

Sallie called me by my Christian name again as she 
assented joyfully to the proposal, and the conversation 
glided off into a track w^here I need not follow it. 
The sun was hardly up, I remember, and none of the 
shops in that part of Broadway would take down 
their shutters for an hour or more. The newsmen 
rushing by with damp bundles of papers, and the 
hacks driving to and from the early boats and trains, 
were about the only occupants of the street ; and 
S^allie thought it very different from the Broadway 
she had known in her visits to New York, and worth 
being out at that unearthly hour to see as a novelty. 
At length we reached Vesey Street, and as we turned 
the corner I think my heart beat faster than it had 
ever done in any of the perilous positions of my war 
experience. Suppose the door of the ladies' entrance 
should be locked at this early period of the day ; or 
suppose we should be met at the head of the stairs by 
a polite waiter ! In either case I think I should rather 
have been in even General Burnside's boots than 
mine that morning. But no untoward incident over- 
threw my scheme at its beginning ; we entered, ran 
up the stairs, and, without meeting an inquisitive eye, 
crossed the hall into the little reception-room, where 
a jolly fire already burned in the grate, and gave an 
opportunity for Sallie to doff her overshoes and warm 
her pretty feet in the most enchanting way imaginable. 

Of course I left her, ostensibly to report myself at 
the office ; and of course I did not go near the office, 
but made a hasty toilet in the wash-room, including ren- 
ovation to the extent of a clean paper collar from the 



OUR BREAKFAST AT THE ASTOR. 349 

recesses of one of my pockets. I needed the splash 
of the cold water to dispel the nervousness which kept 
creei^ing over me when I thought of the dangers of 
my position and the immensity of the interests at 
stake. I think I would have given a slice of my 
reputation to have met any of my newspaper friends 
in the familiar lobby, with five dollars in his pocket ; 
but journalists are not abroad so late in the morning 
as half-past six, and no such means of relief was to be 
hoped for. I would have pawned my watch willingly, 
or sold it for one tenth its value with absolute pleas- 
ure; but neither my uncle nor the jewellers open their 
doors till eight, at least. We had time enough, but 
none to spare ; so I braced myself with bold resolu- 
tion, assumed as much of the air of an established 
guest as possible, and sauntered back to the reception- 
room, where Sallie was waiting in the firelight, lean- 
ing her head on her hand, and in the prettiest attitude 
of fitigue and meditation in the world. She donned 
again her outer garments briskly, I shouldered over- 
coat and minor luggage, and we marched, she as 
innocent as a lark and as gay, and I weighed down 
with apprehension and suspense, into the cosey little 
breakfast-room. 

Nobody stepped up to question my right there : 
the waiter designated a table for us as a matter of 
course, and evidently took us, as I meant he should, 
for guests of yesterday, compelled to an early break- 
fast on account of departure in the morning train. 
There was one such party in the room already, eating, 
bonneted and shawled, and with nervous glances at 
the clock. The fires glowed in the two grates with a 
cheerful lustre, and the screens before them, serving 
also as heaters for the rolls and plates, reminded me 
of the tin-kitchens of my boyhood's days. We had a 



350 STOEIES. 

table to ourselves in one corner. Sallie clai^ped her 
hands joyously, and said it was splendid ; and we 
combined to order such a breakfast as might have 
suggested to the waiter that we were just from a 
journey, and not just starting out. I remember I 
sent the waiter off with a bit of currency to buy me a 
morning's " Herald," quite as much to add an air of 
luxury to our repast as to reassure myself that no 
New York news23aper man had stolen a march upon 
me by a balloon or aerial telegraph with an account 
of the battle. There was only a half-column of sen- 
sational headings and a few confused lines of con- 
tradictory statements vaguely shadowing forth the 
defeat. My newspaper triumph was certain, and with 
it I felt assured of a promotion and an established 
reputation in my profession which would give me the 
right to ask Sallie the question to which I fancied her 
eyes had already said yes. 

It was a most bewitching breakfast. With youth 
and health and love and novelty to season our viands, 
there was no sickly sentimentalism about our apj^e- 
tites. Mine had the added stimulus of the remem- 
brance of six months' campaign fare in Virginia and 
Maryland; but I think we both enjoyed the feast 
about alike, and shared each other's steaks, cutlets, 
omelets, chicken-wings, and successive plates of smok- 
ing, luscious cakes, in a merry mood of rivalry and 
comparison. True, to me it had some of the elements 
of Macbeth's feast : as a step resounded in the corri- 
dor I fancied my Banquo in the shape of the gentle- 
manly clerk, coming to ask me to " call at the office 
and register " ; like the Egyptian, I had a grinning 
skull at my banquet in the ebony waiter who might 
ask me at any moment for the number of my room ; 
and when the closet door opened I conjured up a 



OUR BREAKFAST AT THE ASTOR. 351 

skeleton in the shape of a curt detective who might 
take me off to the Tombs as a new edition of Jeremy 
Diddler, with my delayed despatch in my pocket, and 
Sallie in tears of wrath. With such thoughts con- 
stantly popping up, the words of adoration, of en- 
treaty, which kej^t rising to my lij^s as I looked across 
the table at the dainty form opposite, had to be reso- 
lutely repressed ; for should any of these interruptions 
occur, I thought how speedily would the tenderness 
that danced in Sallie's eyes turn to flashing scorn, how 
dark would be the prospect otherwise so bright before 
me. 

But the meal, with all its delights and all its ter- 
rors, came to an end at last ; we had still more than 
half an hour to reach the New Haven station ; and I 
breathed a sigh of relief as the waiter heljDcd me on 
with my overcoat as obsequiously as if I had been Mr. 
Astor himself, with a check for a million in my pocket 
in place of that wretched ninety cents. I would have 
given him half my cash as a fee, in my joy, but that I 
feared to exj^ose the emptiness of my pocket-book. 
We passed down the stairs unmolested as we had 
come up, followed by the hona fide departing guests 
who had breakfasted near us, and who had a carriage 
waiting for them at the door. We made our way to 
the horse-car, which, at that early hour for up-town 
travel, we had nearly to ourselves, and an-ived at 
Twenty-seventh Street in ample time for the eight 
o'clock Boston train. 

It may be imagined that with the weight of my 
rash experiment off my mind and Sallie's pretty head 
occasionally resting on my shoulder, with the horrors 
of the defeat growing dim and the consciousness that 
I had distanced all the press of tlie East in speed that 
morning and should beat them all in minuteness and 



352 STORIES. 

accuracy of detail the next, I soon recovered my nat- 
ural spirits. I saw no longer any reason for delaying 
my own attack upon the fortress I had besieged so 
long. I opened my first parallel at Bridgport, began 
the assault in earnest at New Haven, carried the cita- 
del long before we reached Hartford, and fired a salute 
of victory in the next tunnel. We mutually celebrated 
the triumj^h in another way at Sj^ringfield, where a 
judicious expenditure of my remaining seventy cents 
procured a lunch of wholesome ISTew England viands 
quite as liberal in quantity as our hearty breakfiist had 
left us an aj^petite for. But it was not till long after 
that, that I told Sallie the secret history of our Astor 
House feast, and how, when I gave her up temporarily 
to her father in the depot that happy night, I walked 
to the ofiice with hardly money enough to jingle in 
my pocket. 

Of course, in the happy years that have followed, I 
have felt an occasional twinge of honorable remorse 
as I thought of the contemptible way in which I had 
swindled the Astor House. I did indeed contemplate 
explaining the whole afiair at the ofiice when I next 
j^assed through New York ; but when I came to the 
test, the stately severity of the clerk's manner quite 
froze me with dismay at the thought of such a confes- 
sion to such a man, and I only asked him to give me 
the key of my room. So absurd an idea as sending 
the amount of which I had defrauded the establish- 
ment in an anonymous letter, as people are constantly 
sending such missives to the Treasury De2:)artment, 
was not to be thought of I strove to make such 
reparation as I could by always staying at the house 
when I visited New York, — never again with empty 
pockets ; but then, I have reflected that the thorough 
comfort and homelike atmosphere of the place would 



OUR MAID. 353 

have inclnced this choice in any other circmnstances ; 
and so I have decided to ease my conscience by a sort 
of public confession, and have therefore put faithfully 
down in black and white the whole story of the first 
time my wife and I ever breakfasted together at the 
Astor. 



OUR MAID: HOW WE LOST AKD HOW 
WE FOUND HER. 

A FEW SCENES FKOM A HOUSEHOLD DEAMA. 

I. 

FiDuciA and I had been married six months. We 
had been keeping house five months and a half. The 
difierence of time represented the wedding trip we 
had taken to Montreal and Quebec. The whole six 
months had been but one long honeymoon. Not a 
cloud from any quarter had disturbed the serenity of 
our home-life ; and I had fairly made uj) my mind that 
the stories my friends had told me of the worries 
and annoyances of city housekeeping were all bug- 
bears, invented for timorous bachelors. My surprise, 
therefore, was the greater when, coming home one 
afternoon tired from the labors of the office and the 
encounters of the court-room, Fiducia met me at the 
door — not exactly in tears, but with lips very firmly 
closed and eyes very resolutely kept from winking to 
prevent such a demonstration — with the startling in- 
fonnation that Ellen had left us. Now, Ellen had 
been the strong point of our establishment. She had 
been bequeathed to us by a friend about starting for 

w 



354 STORIES. 

Europe, in whose family she had served for several 
years, and from whom she had the heartiest recom- 
mendations. She had fulfilled the requirements made 
of a girl-of-all-work to our entire satisfaction, and we 
already, in our experience, considered her a permanent 
member of the family. But on this memorable day, 
Fiducia said, she had been offered the position of 
second girl, with her own sister as associate servant, in 
a fimily rich enough to keep several attendants, on the 
condition of accej^ting it at once ; and, having no incon- 
venient scruples on points of honor to embarrass her 
action, she had thrown to the winds all such trifles as 
an agreement to give a month's warning, and had 
already departed. Even while we spoke the express- 
man came down stairs with her trunk, — a monstrous 
affiiir of the Saratoga model, Avhich quite threw Fidu- 
cia's modest little ^portmanteau into the shade. My 
wife had comj^leted the cooking of dinner, which the 
departed damsel had left half done ; and as our wrath 
diminished under the influence of the j^udding made as 
she had liked it in her childhood, we discussed more 
composedly the catastrophe and its remedy. 

"After all," said I, "it would not be so bad if it 
were not for this case that takes every second of my 
time this week. Girls are plentier here than in the 
country, and if none advertises to-night in the " Tran- 
script," perhaps we can find one at the nearest intelli- 
gence ofiice, when we can get time to go there." 

So we cheered up and made light of it; though 
Fiducia's flushed face and weary eyes, the results of 
her experiments over the unfamiliar range, made me 
resolve not to accept her assurance that she would not 
much mind doing the work herself for a few days. 

When the sharp ring of the carrier at the door-bell 
announced the arrival of the " Transcript," we both 



OUR MAID. 355 

waited a minute or so for Ellen to bring the sprightly 
sheet in as usual; and then the reaction from our 
hapj^y forgetfulness made us turn, as soon as we opened 
the sheet, to its long column of " Situations Wanted." 

But there was not a maid for us in the " Transcrij^t." 
There were four applicants for that delightfully named 
position of " j^arlor girl " in a small, genteel family ; 
three who would serve as chambermaids, and as many 
to take care of children ; one fastidious person who was 
willing to assume the charge of " a very quiet infmt " ; 
and several advertisers who wanted places for two in- 
separable sisters in the same house. There were 
plenty of people, apparently in the same plight as 
ourselves, seeking for servants of all classes and de- 
scrii^tions. Bat not a single girl in the city, it seemed, 
was so desirous of a place to do general housework in 
a very small family as to give publicity to her wishes 
through the newspaper. 

" Now, don't bother your poor, tired head about the 
matter another minute," said Fiducia, as we reached 
the foot of the catalogue. " Smoke your pipe and 
digest your dinner is peace, and I will attend to it 
in the morning." 

" But, my dear," said I, " you would be sure to get 
taken in at an intelligence office." 

"I have too good a judgment of faces for that," 
protested the confident little woman. " And, more- 
over, I have not lived six months in Boston for 
nothing." 

Indeed, I needed all my nerves and all my thoughts 
for my case then pending, — fancying, as every young- 
lawyer does, that my whole professional reputation 
and the success of my career depended upon my win- 
ning it. So I dismissed the kitchen from my mind, 
and proceeded, according to the unj^rofessional habit 



356 STORIES. 

which the duration of my honeymoon had fastened 
upon me, to make all the intricacies of the suit clearer 
in my own mind by exj^laining them minutely to 
Fiducia. She gave such attention as one never gets 
from a juryman ; and some of her keen questions and 
apt suggestions were worth gold eagles to me, and 
the hints they gave were employed to great advantage 
next day in the cross-examinations of uncandid wit- 
nesses. 

II. 

The trial engrossed all my thoughts daring the next 
day ; and it was not till I came in sight of my own 
door that I thought, with a mental growl at my own 
lack of sympathy, of the perplexities that must, during 
the same time, have been besetting Fiducia. But I 
was reassured when that lady met ray eyes in the bay- 
window, busily stitching away at the slippers which 
were to suprise me on Christmas day, and when I 
caught a glimpse of a calico-clad form through the 
window of the basement story. 

"It is all right again, Dick," said Fiducia, as she 
met me with "No Thoroughfare" held in her hand in 
a manner quite to defy suspicion. " I have hired a 
girl from the intelligence office for the same wages 
we gave Ellen; and so far I think she's a perfect 
wonder." 

" Where was her last place, and why did she leave 
it ? " said I. 

Fiducia's first reply was a look of surprise. " I am 
sure, I don't know. Ought I to have found out, 
Dick?" 

" Of course you asked for her references," said I, 
never doubting that she had done so. 



OUR MAID. 357 

" Indeed, I did nothiDg of the kind," replJfed Fiducia. 
" I never slionld have thought of such a question ; " 
and then, noticing the look of doubt which I could 
not keep from my face, "just hear what my experience 
was, and you will wonder I had wits enough left to 
ask any questions at all." 

So we sat down comfortably in the parlor, and, 
as I changed my boots for the worn-out slippers which 
my landlady's daughter worked for me in my bache- 
lor days, and the decay of which I always thought 
Fiducia looked u23on with complacency, she told me 
her story. 

She had gone over to the intelligence office, the 
whereabouts of which she had learned from the news- 
paper, as soon as the breakfast dishes were disposed 
of. She had waited a few moments in hesitation at 
the long row of staring girls who confronted her when 
the pert young woman in charge had overwhelmed 
her with the inquiry, " What kind of a situation she 
wanted." After this trifling misunderstanding had 
been recovered from (not apologized for), she had 
been j^resented to a tall, straj^ping young woman, not 
many months from Ireland, who had proceeded to 
catechize her: "Had she changed girls often" ; "Did 
she give her girl a pleasant room " ; " Was the girl 
expected to wash the windows"; "Did she expect a 
warm dinner cooked on Sunday " ; and so on, till at 
last an indignant negative to one of this exacting 
dignitary's essential conditions had brought the con- 
clusive "Then I think your house won't suit me, 
ma'am." Another and another had come up for ex- 
amination with substantially the same results; until 
Fiducia had begun to think all the dreadful stories her 
friend had told her of intelligence offices were true. 
But at last she had been 2:>resented to a young woman 



358 STORIES. 

whose simplicity and good manners seemed like an 
oasis in a desert of impudence. This remarkable being 
had asked no questions, and had answered many satis- 
factorily, as to her ability to cook, even in the mys- 
teries of cake-baking, her willingness to do all the 
household work of our little family, her content with 
the i^rivileges of absence two evenings a week, her 
acceptance of the weekly wages we had formerly paid. 
Fiducia seemed to have been fairly fascinated, and — 
till I broke the spell by the inquiry I have recorded — 
had not reflected upon the fact that she had not learned 
from her new maid a single thing about her antecedents 
and personal history, except that her name was Mary 
Mitchell. 

" O, well," said I at last, " perhaps it is as safe to 
rely on your shrewd instinct in the matter. All 
Ellen's florid recommendations did not prevent her 
from leaving us in the lurch at a moment's warning." 

" I am sure, I think, from what I have seen, she will 
prove to be a treasure, Dick," rejoined Fiducia; " only 
since I came home I have had some misgivings lest 
she might be dangerously charming." 

This implied fear of my susceptibility was met, as 
it was made, with a laugh ; and we went to dinner. 

Certainly our new servitor was not one of the com- 
mon run of kitchen maids. If her name had not dis- 
l^elled the association of Hibernian origin which in- 
evitably comes up in this connection, her presence 
would have driven it away. Tall and lithe, with a 
white arm and a little hand, a pale face and an ex- 
pression of dignified reserve, it needed all the plain 
calico gown, the brown hair ruthlessly drawn back 
and rolled into an unbecoming knot, the thorough 
respectfulness of demeanor, to suggest the servant-girl 
at all. But the dinner and the manner of its serving 



OUR MAID. 359 

proved her experienced and accomplished in the duties 
of her position, and so dispelled all donbts. I might 
as well turn this story at once into a supplement to 
Thackeray's "Memorials of Gormandizing," as to at- 
tempt to convey a conception of the subtle and mar- 
vellous art with which Mary Mitchell j^rovided for 
our breakfasts and dinners, then and afterwards, while 
slie remained with us. The halibut was browned as 
daintily as a hungry soldier might see it in a dream ; 
the beef was cooked just to the j^oint where not 
one cook in ten thousand is quick enough to leave 
off; the sauce to the pudding was a new delight; 
and with all these material excellences there Avas a 
mysterious something in the very setting of the table, 
in the method with which Mary with noiseless move- 
ment and no unseemly haste changed the dishes as 
we passed from one course to another, that seemed to 
impart a new dignity, almost a new j^oetry, to the 
little city dining-room. But Fiducia says I always 
get beyond my depth in rapture when I try to de- 
scribe Mary Mitchell's cookery; and were I to con- 
tinue for a column or two, much must still be left to 
the imagination. 

The best of it was that the genius which stood her 
in such good stead at the range accompanied her 
through the rest of her wide range of duties. Says 
old George Herbert, — 

" A servant with this clause 
Makes drudgery divine ; 
Who sweeps a room as for thy laws 
]\Iakes that and the action fine." 

Mary Mitchell not only swept a room with the thor- 
oughness of an acute conscience; she made the silver 
shine with a brilliancy that brought back memories 
of the new glitter of the array of gifts upon our 



360 STORIES. 

wedding-day ; she gave my shirt-front such a miracu- 
lous polish that I began to feel the dandy pride of 
bachelorhood. And when little Fred Greenleaf of 
Beacon Street came to call on us, she ojoened the door 
to him and showed him up stairs in such a serene 
way that Fred raved about her for full fifteen minutes, 
and I began to think of him in the character of King 
Cophetua. 

The long and short of it was that, having fairly dis- 
covered such an unexpected jewel in the mire of an 
intelligence office, and recognizing some mystery about 
our new acquisition which we could not make up our 
minds to violently fathom, Fiducia and I decided not 
to intrude upon the dignified reserve of our new 
housemaid by putting that neglected question about 
references and former services, but to trust to time 
and the unrestrained intercourse of daily life to reveal 
all that was needed. And when day after day passed 
until a week had gone by, and we were as much in 
the dark as ever (my wife testifying to a certain un- 
expressed but unmistakable unwillingness of Mary to 
follow the lead of any conversation tending to her own 
affairs), any misgivings we might have had were lulled 
to sleejD by the entire propriety of her behavior, the 
honesty of her face, and her manifest ability to per- 
form all the services we might require. And if Fi- 
ducia suggested that the refinement and cultivation 
which, unobtrusive as she was, could not but be seen 
in our housemaid's manner and language, were incon- 
sistent with her position in life, I received it with the 
incredulity of a legally trained mind, and explained 
all by referring it to the influence of some former 
mistress, or the beginning of a new Utopian era in 
" servantgalism." I found my bread really toasted 
and positively hot, my buckwheat cakes light as 



OUR MAID. 361 

air, and cooked to perfection; and I revelled too 
heartily in the novelty to disturb myself with won- 
derings which in themselves were absurd; for figs 
might sooner grow on thistle stalks than romance 
could be expected to blossom in an intelligence 
office. 

Perhaps I should mention that there was one occa- 
sion when Mary Mitchell seemed about to lapse into 
one of the chronic failings of her class. It was at 
dinner. In continuation of my habit of confiding to 
my wife the incidents of my" professional life, I read 
to her, in the course of the dessert, a letter which I 
had received at the office. It was from the Hon. 
David TVentworth, the rich cotton manuflicturer and 
local magnate of Tothersex County in New Hamp- 
shire. He had been a client of the firm for half a 
century ; and now that my partner was dead he con- 
tinued the relation, although thus far I had never 
seen him. 

Thus he wrote : — 

" Wentworth^tlle, December 17. 

" Sir : I enclose a note which I wish you to ad- 
dress properly and hand to the most eminent j^rivate 
detective in your city. As I have directed him to 
apply to you for your professional aid if it be neces- 
sary, I will state that the commission relates to the 
discovery of my daughter, who has wilfully and T\dth- 
out my consent left her home, for the purpose, as I 
believe, of meeting and marrying a certain lieutenant 
in the navy, named Barlow. I have reason to believe 
that the marriage has not yet taken place, as, soon 
after my daughter's flight, a letter arrived addressed 
to her, stating that the writer had been suddenly 
ordered to Washington, and asking her to defer her 
departure. If, therefore, the detective agent whom 
16 



362 STORIES. 

you may select sliall discover her place of conceal- 
ment in time the affair may be prevented. But if this 
is not accomi3lished, I shall have immediate occasion 
for my will, which is placed with other papers in the 
safe of your firm. You will, therefore, please forward 
the document to me immediately ; and if you have 
any occasion to communicate with me in the course 
of the search, use the telegraph freely, and if neces- 
sary I can myself go to Boston at any moment. I 
have given out that my daughter is visiting her aunt 
in Chicago, and remain at home to prevent any 
awakening of scandal. 

" I have described the young lady, and given all the 
clews I have as to her probable places of refuge in the 
letter enclosed. 

" Your ob'd't servant, 

"David Wentwoeth." 

" The old fellow," I explained to my wife as I read, 
" has written as stiffly as if he were directing me to 
foreclose a mortgage ; but I can see the feeling, and 
passion too, in his handwriting. His fingers must 
have trembled amazingly in making some of these 
words. I promj^tly delivered the enclosure, which 
was sealed, to James Seek ; and if the runaway is to 
be caught, he will catch her." 

It was during this very dinner that Mary Mitchell, 
coming in, in her calm way, with the teapot, — a very 
quaint and pretty little bit of Wedgewood ware which 
my bride and I had selected on the first day of our 
housekeeping, — found it too hot for her hands, and 
dropped it before she reached the table. We prized 
it foolishly ; and I know I should have said something 
sharp, but that I saw the cloud gathering on Fiducia's 
brow 5 and a similar sight, I suppose, kept her from 



OUR MAID. 363 

any rebuke. Mary looked thoroughly frightened, and 
grew fairly white as she swept uj) the j^ieces of the 
perished nose ; and when Fiducia reported after din- 
ner that she had been having a little cry over her 
accident in the kitchen, we were both glad that 
neither of us had contributed to a regret which went 
quite deep enough for the trifle that caused it. We 
almost forgot the spoiling of our cherished set an hour 
afterwards, as we talked over the flimily trouble that 
had come upon old Mr. Wentworth in spite of his 
wealth. And I do not know which of us was the 
most surprised the next day when Mary Mitchell — 
who had asked an hour's leave of absence for the first 
time, in the morning — came in at the projoer stage 
of the dinner with a new teapot, the precise counter- 
part of our ruined beauty, which we had thought un- 
matchable in the city. She did it as serenely as she 
did everything, as if it were the most usual thing in 
the world for a kitchen-maid to repair the results of 
her carelessness ; and we neither of us seemed at the 
moment to have words to exclaim upon the phenom- 
enon before she had left the room. 

" I declare," said Fiducia, as she si2:)ped and luxuri- 
ated in the delicate aroma which Mary seemed to j^re- 
serve so much better than any one else, " I think we 
have been harboring Cinderella, sent out in disgrace 
for staying too late at the ball ; and her fairy god- 
mother is helping her to perform miracles to amaze 
us." 

" At least, my dear," said I, merrily, " there are some 
fashionable people too wise to try to put their feet 
into her little slipj^ers." And in due time I had my 
ears boxed for the impertinence, and was compelled to 
take back the insinuation, Avhich, I am bound to say, 
in my wife's case at least, was unfounded. 



364 STORIES. 



III. 



Another week passed away, its o ice hours dotted 
with calls from James Seek to re ort no j^rogress 
in his inquiries among hotels and loarding-houses, 
and letters from the millionnaire o ^'^entworthville 
full of increasing petulance and i ite directions 
about the new will I was framing him; and its 
home hours enlivened by constant n 'scoveries of 
the capabilities of our reticent cook u ly of ethe- 

real and flaky joie-crust. After dinner one day, 

as I smoked my pipe in the bay-w^ ^ saw our 

maid in her gray walking-suit leave ^ house by the 
area door, and walk in the direction < f " down town." 
She trod the sidewalk so genteelly that I watched her 
as she went, — Fiducia looking over my shoulder, — 
and saw her pass uj^ the steps of No. 20, where 
my friend. Dr. Forceps, plies his dr- adful but neces- 
sary steel ; saw her run down again Ave minutes later, 
and disapjDcar round the corner. 

Now, these circumstances were very trifling in them- 
selves ; but I thought for a time I should have to tes- 
tify to them on the witness-stand. For Mary Mitchell 
never came back ! 

Of course it was some time before her absence 
began to disturb us. The evening wore away. Fred 
Greenleaf called, and jocularly expressed his diappoint- 
ment because I opened the door to him with my own 
hands ; and it was not till bedtime drew near that we 
indulged in any wonder that a member of our family 
should be out so late. We set the chessmen to while 
away the minutes of waiting till we should hear her 
ring; and it was not till "checkmate," pronounced 
after a very intricate struggle, released our attention 
to seek the clock-face, that I exclaimed : — 



OUR MAID. 365 

" Upon my w rd, Fidncia, we must count the spoons, 
and examine yoir jewel-box." 

" That is just like you, Dick, — suspicious of rascality 
the very first mi* , ate, like a — lawyer as you are. With 
such a face as M' ry Mitchell's, I wonder you can think 
of such a thing. 1 

Neverthelessj'rre went over the list of our silver, and 
checked off art)\ le after article. I^ot one thino^ was 
missing. The 1^'^ tie jewel-case had lost nothing. The 
wardrobe was undisturbed. All in the kitchen was in 
perfect order,— r^jven the fire built in the range in 
readiness for theimatch, the dining-room table set for 
breakfast. ^ 

" Of course, laiever for an instant doubted the girl's 
honesty," said Ji, as we completed our tour of in- 
spection. " The thing is clear enough. She has 
found some sick friend at the West End or South 
Boston, and stained to watch with her." 

" Then she never will do it again without coming 
home to ask lea e," said incredulous Fiducia, jiursing 
up her lips ; and so, for the night, we dismissed the 
subject, though not the perplexity it occasioned, and 
reluctantly locked up the house. 

I opened the door in the morning half expecting to 
see Mary Mitchell waiting on the steps with her apol- 
ogy all ready. But there was nothing there save the 
can left by the milkman. The kitchen was cold and 
dreary in spite of its neatness. 

Notwithstanding all the confidence I expressed and 
felt, I looked again in the plate-closet ; but no burglar 
had been admitted by false keys or otherwise, and the 
little carven goat slept on the cover of the butter-dish 
as usual. Fiducia was for setting about preparing 
breakfast at once ; but I could not wait for a begin- 
ning to be made de novo, with the fire unkindled, and 



366 STORIES. 

suggested a trip to Parker's instead. Naturally our 
vanished maid took a large place in our thoughts and 
conversation. We stopped at No. 20, on the way- 
down, to make the only inquiry which, in our entire 
and (as I now saw) inexcusable ignorance as to Mary 
Mitchell's friends and acquaintances, seemed possible. 

"Certainly, I remember the caller," said Dr. For- 
ceps, "and recognized, her as your new maid. She 
simply asked if I could spare her five minutes at once 
to appease an aching tooth. I had a long job on hand, 
and asked her to aj^point an hour to-morrow ; but she 
said she would try another dentist." 

I explained the circumstances of her disappearance; 
but the doctor's wisdom gave us no light. 

" She has got tired of you and gone in search of 
another place. I was served just so by an Irish girl 
Avhen I was young and raw at keej^ing house." 

" But did your girl run away Avith two weeks' 
wages due her?" said I, seeing no amusement in my 
friend's joke. 

" That alters the case," admitted the doctor. " I 
think you will see her back again before the day is 
out." 

" She shall never come back to stay without a full 
ex23lanation," said Fiducia, firmly, as we waited for the 
car ; and I admitted that the affair would look very 
dark, were the missing maid any maid but Mary 
Mitchell ; and that I could suggest no plausible expla- 
nation of the mystery. 

Dr. Forceps had invited us to dine with his family 
in default of Mary's return during the morning ; so 
Fiducia, though she returned home as soon as we had 
breakfasted, to be on the spot when the truant should 
appear, did not touch a match to the frowning range, 
and got along very easily after my office-boy had been 



OUR MAID. 367 

Tip to hurl the heavy shovelfuls of coal into the fur- 
nace. I returned at the usual hour, feeling sure that 
an explanation of the whole story would be ready for 
me at the door. But there was none ; and Fiducia, 
waiting and wondering alone, had grown very ner- 
vous. 

" There is just one theory I can present," said I, as 
the dinner at Dr. Forceps's pleasant board was over ; 
" only one theory consistent with Mary Mitchell's 
modesty, sobriety, honesty, and apparent high char- 
acter." 

" What is that, pray ? " said my wife. 

"She was in search of a dentist," said I. "She 
may have fallen into the hands of one unskilful, or a 
scoundrel, have taken ether, and have been unable to 
get home." 

" By George ! " said the Doctor, springing up with 
a fiery energy unusual even with him ; " you may be 
right. There are some great quacks and greater 
villains who hang on the outskirts of the profession. 
I have heard of just such a case." 

The fervor of the Doctor inspired me with con- 
tagious belief in a theory which I had thrown out 
merely as a wild conjecture. 

" But, having once harbored such a suspicion, what 
is one to do about it ?" said L 

" Put it in the hands of the police," said the Doctor; 
" they could make inquiries at the office of every den- 
tist in Boston in two hours." 

" I am afraid your estimate is based on your knowl- 
edge of the police system of Paris," I replied. " I 
have not so strong a fiith. And, after all, I think the 
girl would come quietly home to laugh at our excite- 
ment before the search was half over." 

" Then you put less trust in Mary Mitchell than I 



368 STORIES. 

do," said Fiducia, stoutly. "I cannot believe she 
would absent herself in this way, without leaving a 
word of explanation behind her, if she were able to 
come home." 

"Good heavens!" exploded the Doctor, to whom 
the evening paper had just been brought in, " listen 
to this." And he read aloud the paragraph, which I 
shortly afterward cut out, and have still preserved in 
my pocket-book as a memento of the day: — 

"A woman who gave her name, as nearly as it 
could be understood, as Mary Mifflin, was found by 
officer Harris in Temple Place last evening, in a state 
of utter stupor, produced by intoxication. On recov- 
ering her senses in the cell at the station-house, she 
twice attempted to strangle herself She was brought 
up in the Municipal Court this morning, and was sent 
to the Island for thirty days." 

" And what do you make of that ? " said I. " I 
would believe anything sooner than that the Mary 
Mitchell who has lived in my house would ever be 
drunk in the street." 

" Don't you see, don't you see ! " said the impetuous 
Doctor, running his fingers through his hair, and 
pacing up and down the room in a fever of excite- 
ment. " It is as plain as a pike-staff. Mary Mitchell 
goes to a dentist, — so much we know for certain. 
She is drugged, stupefied, — turned out at last in the 
street. She is picked up by a policeman who cannot 
tell ether from alcohol ; registered by a sergeant who 
hears her broken utterance with his elbows ; she is an 
honest girl of no little refinement and breeding; find- 
ing herself in a cell, fancying herself disgraced forever, 
her brain still topsy-turvy, she tries to strangle her- 
self with her garter. Why, man, I've known a 
woman do the same thing in coming out from the 



OUE MAID. 369 

effects of ether, after only iDiilling a tooth for her. 
She is j^ut through the mill of the court in the morn- 
ing with twenty drunkards and vagrants, and by this 
time she is on the Island." 

" I must say you seem to me to have hatched up a 
very ingenious cock-and-bull story," said I, trying to 
reassure Fiducia, who was trembling and pallid with 
horror. 

" Suggest a more reasonable hypothesis of the girl's 
absence yourself," said the Doctor. 

" That challenge is too much for me," I rejoined. 
" At least, I will sift your theory without a moment's 
delay. For anything I know, I am the nearest ap- 
proach to a friend the poor girl has in the city, and 
it is my duty to investigate the case. I will go down 
town to the station-house at once." 

" I will go mth you," exclaimed the warm-hearted, 
hot-headed little doctor. 

So we arranged that Mrs. Forceps and the girls 
should go over and sit with Fiducia, to keep her 
company in our absence; and the Doctor and I sallied 
forth on the wildest night of the season, — horse-cars 
all taken off, snow-ploughs just giving up the contest, — 
for the walk down town. The fierceness of the storm 
seemed to contribute to the horrible apparitions he 
had conjured up ; and by the time we reached the 
streets, not altogether lonely, we had both become 
about convinced in our own minds that Mary Mitchell 
had passed through terrors we dared not picture, and 
was at that moment going crazy in her cell at Deer 
Island. 

The lieutenant in charge was urbane, as he always 
is, and ready to do all in his power for us. But neither 
his information nor that to be derived from the regis- 
ter was much more definite than the newspaper para- 
16* X 



370 STORIES. 

graph : " Mary Mifflin," was the entry, in the broad, 
subdivided page of the ledger, — " color, white ; age, 
twenty-five; height, five feet four inches; born in 
Maine ; hair, dark ; ofience, drunkenness ; cell, No. 7 ; 
officer, Harris ; remarks, tried to hang herself in the 
night ; sentence, thirty days." That was all the book 
told us. If the doctor's theory was tenable, it might 
be our Mary Mitchell, for anything in the dry, soul- 
less catalogue to contradict it. But the police officer 
did not look at the theory with much favor. 

" What did she get from you, sir ? " he had said, 
when we began our inquiries. 

" She took nothing at all," I explained ; " she is 
merely missing, not a thief." 

" O, well, sir," said he, losing his interest some- 
what ; " if you 've lost nothing, better let it alone. 
If a girl will run away and get drunk, better give her 
up as a bad lot, and try another." 

" But if this is my girl," I remonstrated, " she has 
not got drunk at all. I suspect she was stupefied 
with ether, and turned out in the street." 

The officer gave a long look at us, as nearly ap- 
proaching to wonder as the countenance of a veteran 
policeman is capable of assuming, and then turned to 
attend to a miserable remnant of humanity who had 
come in out of the storm to seek the hospitality of his 
cheerless cells. 

" Do you know whether this woman offered any 
explanation, any defence, when she was brought up 
in the court this morning?" inquired Forcej^s, when 
the almoner of the city's bounty was again at leisure. 

" O, for the matter of that, probably not," said the 
officer. " Most of them just sit still in the dock, and 
if they say nothing it is taken for granted that they 
have nothing to say, and they are sent off" at the rate 
of four a minute." 



OUR MAID. 371 

" When can I get down to the Island ? " said I. 

" You can go in the morning, of course, sir,'' said 
he ; " but if you '11 take my advice, you will not trouble 
3"ourself about it. This woman must have been an 
old stager, or she would never have tried the garter 
business." 

" Will you tell me what time the boat leaves ? " said 
I, a little impatient ; for this man did not know Mary 
Mitchell, and I considered his advice an intrusion upon 
the ardor of our crusade in her behalf 

" The steamer Avill sail at nine o'clock, sir," replied 
the officer, all dignified frigidity at once. " You will 
need a j^ass to go down. Here it is." 

He gave me a little card, the blanks of which he 
had filled up, and Dr. Forceps and I battled our way 
home again. 

lY. 

The next morning my enthusiasm had a little cooled 
down, and I had begun to think respectfully of the 
police instinct, even in a matter of which the police- 
man might be said to know nothing. But Fiducia 
was at once ardent and logical, and pointed out that 
I had no proof that all might not have happened as 
Dr. Forceps's rapid imagination had pictured it. So I 
started earty, despatched the breakfast of toast and 
eggs we had prej^ared on the fire, which at last we 
had lighted, and had just time to run into the office 
for my letters before going to the wharf At the of. 
fice I found James Seek waiting to see me. 

"Well, 'Squire," said he, with that rusticity which 
he has never w^orn ofi*, and which I think he affects as 
a desirable trait in his profession ; " I reckon I have 
got track of that missing girl at last." 



372 STORIES. 

" You don't mean to say you have been looking for 
her, too," said I, startled. 

" But I fear she is married and out of the old gen- 
tleman's reach," continued the detective. 

" O, pshaw ! you mean Miss Wentworth," said I. 
"I have not an instant to spare, — back by noon at 
latest"; and I rushed through the snowy streets to 
the wharf, and arrived just in time. 

Peoj^le who have been in the habit of taking dog- 
day excursions in the Rose Standish, or the venerable 
wheelbarrow that trundles to Nahant, can form little 
conception of the trip to Deer Island in December. 
If I had been going dowm as a convicted pickpocket, 
I should have gloated over a long term, if it had spared 
me the thought of coming back in winter. But as the 
whole expedition terminated in a blind alley, I will 
not weary the reader by a narrative of its terrors. 
Suffice it to say that I never fully sympathized with 
Dr. Kane until that day. I disembarked at last, and 
pushed my inquiries as guardedly as I could. After 
some formalities had been gone through with, Mary 
Mifflin was ushered into the little office, where I sat 
thawing my ear and shaking my tingling fingers. A 
great, hulking, coarse, blowsy wench, in whose history 
drunkenness might have been passed over as a com- 
paratively trifling weakness, she was no more like the 
delicate damsel I sought than Claudius to King Ham- 
let. She came in all eagerness and curiosity ; which, 
when she discovered that I had nothing to say but 
that I had made a mistake, changed into a scorn she 
was amply able to exjjress. 

" Did you want to adopt me, sonny ? " she cried, in 
great glee, " or did you see me in the court and fall in 
love with me ? Come, get wp a petition and pardou 
me out, and I '11 come and keep house for ye." 



OUE MAID. 373 

I know not how long the laughing superintendent 
might have permitted the wretch to go on ; for I saw 
the boat about to start on her return trip, and made a 
hasty departure, not to be left behind. If the trip 
down the harbor was a taste of Nova Zembla, the 
journey back again, with my Quixotic mission and 
and its ending to reflect ujDon, was a positive glimpse 
of the North Pole. I stamped up and down the nar- 
row deck full of wrath at the simplicity of Forceps, as 
if I had not shared it; and it was not till we had 
thrown our hawser to the wharf that my indignation 
had subsided enough to permit the recurring wonder, 
"Where was Mary Mitchell, then, all this time?" 
Even then, my personal sufierings seemed to over- 
come my feelings of interest on her account. I for- 
got even to notice that Seek did not keep the implied 
appointment of my parting words to him ; and when 
I reached home at dinner-time I was grinding my 
teeth with disgust at the ridiculous story I had to tell 
Fiducia, whom I pictured waiting in breathless anxi- 
ety for the result of my mission of rescue. 



Y. 

What was my surprise, therefore, to find that usu- 
ally staid little lady fairly dancing with delight, which 
sparkled in her eyes and twinkled in her lips. 

" What do you think I have found, Dick, — and in 
the flour-barrel all this time ? " 

" Don't keep me in suspense," I exclaimed, snatch- 
ing her hand ; for at the moment an absurb image of 
some mangled remains stored in our prosaic pantry, as 
the climax to a homd tragedy, or some new version 
of the old story of Ginevra in her oaken chest, flashed 
across my mind. 



374 STORIES. 

" Why, a note from her, to be sure," cried Fiducia, 
talking at lightning speed. " She tliought the first 
thing we should do when the housework fell on our 
hands was to open the flour-barrel, so she j^inned it 
in there; and we, lazy children that we are, have 
never cooked so much as a biscuit till to-day. But 
who do you guess she is, Dick ? " 

" I have been guessing on her conundrums too 
long," said I, almost savagely. " Tell me what apol- 
ogy the baggage made for deserting us." 

" The baggage is a runaway heiress, my love. Read 
that!" 

So, with a brain almost dazed, I read it : — 

" Dear Madaim : Do not imagine I should ever 
have left you so clandestinely, but that I heard your 
husband read the letter from my father, which showed 
they were acquainted. I feared by telling you (as I 
had before that intended to do when the time came), 
to betray all. When you find this to-night I shall be 
George Barlow's vnfe ; and my unhind father can do 
nothing more wdiich I shall fear. I long to see you 
with the mash oif, to explain how I was compelled to 
deceive you, and to thank you for many hindnesses 
while I hid from my pursuers as your maid. If you 
can forgive the deceit I have imwillingly practised, 
we shall be happy to see your husband and yourself 
any time this week at the Revere House. 

"Mary Mitchell Wentworth." 

" By Jove ! " was all I could say. 

" But why do you look so solemn over it, Dick ? " 
said Fiducia. " I am sure I think it is splendid. I 
never heard of so much spirit in my life." 

" You forget old David Wentworth," said I. "What 
will he say when he knows I have hid his daughter in 



OUR MAID. 375 

my kitchen all the time he has been scouring the city 
for her Avith detectives ? " 

"Never mind him," said Fiducia, tartly. "What 
should we have done if my father had set his face 
against you in that obstinate style ? " 

" At least you could never have rivalled Miss Went- 
worth as a cook, if you had been forced to such an 
expedient," said I. 

" How do you know that, Mr. Scej^tic ? " replied my 
wife. " Come and partake of the chicken I have fricas- 
seed for you, and say that again if you dare. I want 
you to go with me this very night to call on Mr. and 
Mrs. George Barlow. See, here is the marriage in 
this evening's paper." 

So go we did ; and the bride received us as sweetly, 
and withal as simply, as she had received our visitors 
in my little entry. Fred Greenleaf came in while we 
were there. Barlow was an old chum of his, and his 
congratulations became doubly hearty when he found 
out who was his friend's wife and how she had been 
won. We heard the odd story a dozen times in dif- 
ferent words ; but as the reader has guessed its pur- 
port already, it need not be rehearsed here in detail. 
The fugitive heiress had learned of her lover's neces- 
sary absence only when it was too late to return home 
without humiliation. She knew the prompt measures 
her stern old father would set on foot for her discov- 
ery, so she resolved to seek complete concealment 
through the medium of an intelligence office. As 
soon as Barlow had been able to get released from 
the order which summoned him to the capital, he had 
returned, and she had joined him half an hour before 
they were married. A skilful and veteran dentist, a 
few blocks from the office of Dr. Forceps, had relieved 
her, on the way, of one of those persistent pains which 



376 STOEIES. 

will disturb the happiest hour of human existence. 
Her departure from us had been made after the 
French fashion, as has been explained, only because 
she had discovered in me one of the very "blood- 
hounds of the law " from whom she was hiding. I 
never should have told her — but Fiducia did — how 
I looked for her among the guests of the city in the 
mansion by the sea, when I might have found her in 
the very apartments which the municipal hospitality 
assigns to such visitors as General Sheridan and the 
Prince of Wales. I felt almost rewarded for my freez- 
ing journey by the smile with which Mrs. George Bar- 
low thanked me for the solicitude I felt for her who 
had been so few days my housemaid. 

The bride and bridegroom insisted upon our 
taking our Christmas dinner with them next day, 
especially as there was no cook at home to pre- 
pare our own feast. Fred Greenleaf was of the 
party ; and I bore an invitation to Dr. Forceps, — a 
slight acknowledgment of the zeal which prompted 
his night expedition with me, — which family and 
professional calls prevented his accepting. The table 
was spread in the young couple's own apartments; 
and Mrs. Barlow presided with a queenly grace in 
which I could see the same noble simplicity of manner 
that had seemed so admirable in our housemaid. 
After all, it is the same great quality of womanliness 
which is the highest attribute of a woman in every 
station of life. There was but one shade over the 
jollity of the banquet, in the thought of the sad, fierce 
old millionnaire in his angry loneliness at Wentworth- 
ville. But I am glad to say that even that shadow 
passed away with the coming of the summer. The 
old gentleman accepted the inevitable, as such fathers 
in fact and fiction usually do; discovered many 



MARRYING A PICKPOCKET. 377 

good points in his son-in-law ; burned the new will, 
and sent the other document back to slumber in my 
safe in Court Street. So far from bearing us any 
malice for our innocent share in the success of his 
daughter's escapade, he has invited us to take our 
Christmas dinner this year, with Mary and George, at 
his family mansion in Wentworthville, 



MARRYING A PICKPOCKET. 

Ralph will persist — most mischievously, as I say 
— in telling the children all sorts of nonsensical 
stories about it ; never the simple truth, but always 
some absurd fable or other, full of extravagance, 
which only stimulates their curiosity. N"o sooner is 
he out of the house than Edgar or Belle, or both to- 
gether, will march up to me with the gravest of little 
faces, and the solemn inquiry, " Did you really pick 
somebody's pocket, mamma?" or, "Did papa really 
find you in the old ugly Black Maria wagon ? " and 
of course they are not old enough to understand the 
actual story, or to remember it rightly if I were to tell 
them a dozen times over. So I think, as I have thought 
many times before, that I will write it all down just as 
it happened, " nothing extenuate," as Mr. Booth says 
at the theatre ; and then the dear boy and girl will 
never get a wrong fancy in their heads ; for I might 
lose in time the vivid remembrance of every incident 
of it which I have now ; and as to Ralph, I think he 
has made so many fenciful additions from time to 
time, all in fun, that he might almost begin to believe 
some of them were true. 



378 STOEIES. 

We read almost every day in the newspapers of 
worthy old ladies and gentlemen, who, at threescore 
and ten, take their first ride by railroad, after living 
all their lives within hearing of the locomotive whistle, 
or who die without ever having tried the experiment, 
or even seeing a train of cars. So I suppose it is not 
altogether incredible, and perhaps not so very discredit- 
able, that I, Mary Gilman, had grown to be a woman 
at the foot of a mountain from whose summit the 
dome of Boston State House can be seen in a clear 
day, and yet had never taken a nearer view of it, nor, 
indeed, set foot in any city whatever. I had no busi- 
ness to take me from home; journeys for pleasure 
were rare with the hard-working residents of our 
neighborhood, busy as they were through the summer, 
and snow-bound in winter ; and my mother had al- 
ways said, " Another time, child," when I had teased 
to be allowed to go with Uncle John on his quarterly 
trips to replenish the stock of his little store. Now 
I was alone in the world ; my mourning clothes were 
almost worn out; the school term was over, and the 
money for teaching ten weeks — thirty dollars — was 
in my pocket ; and I had answered an advertisement in 
the " Journal," and secured a position as an assistant, 
at a much better salary, in a high school in a large 
manufacturing town in Maine. To get there I must 
pass through Boston ; and I had studied myself into 
a headache over a railroad guide, and had ascertained 
that, by taking an early morning train, I could reach 
that city in time to leave it at noon on an eastward 
train, and be at my destination before dark. 

So I had all my worldly goods in my trunk twenty- 
four hours in advance ; spent the last day in bidding 
good by to old family friends, as well as to the little 
people to whose education I had devoted my last 



MAEEYING A PICKPOCKET. 379 

year, and the pleasant households with which I had 
boarded in raj^id succession during the last term ; and 
in the gray winter morning I took my seat in the 
"jumper," which replaced the lumbering stage-coach 
of summer, and was driven across the creaking snow 
to the station. I was not sorry that there was not a 
person I knew waiting there for the same train ; for I 
was old-flishioned enough in those days to like to 
enjoy first sensations alone, and I felt quite in the 
mood of a daring discoverer at the thought of making 
my way to Boston and through it on my own re- 
sponsibility. 

" I suj^pose I have plenty of time to take the 12.20 
train from the Maine station?" said I, when the ur- 
bane conductor vouchsafed me ten seconds or so of his 
precious time, to take the ticket I held in readiness 
for him. 

" 12.20 train taken off, ma'am," said he; "change of 
time last week." 

I almost felt my courage taking Aving at this first 
obstacle to the easy programme I had marked out ; 
but I retained enough of it to snatch at this hurried 
official the next time he passed me, with the query 
when the next train would start for Portland. 

" 2.45, ma'am," said he, as placidly as before. 

After a brisk resort to the mental arithmetic which 
had lately filled so large a share in my daily life, I felt 
reassured. Two hours and a half lost would still 
carry me to my destination in season to find the com- 
mittee-man who had secured my boarding-place for 
me, before he would be likely to be inaccessible. Two 
hours and a half in Boston would give scope for an 
amount of agreeable exploration and adventure I had 
not dared to hope for. I had read in some philo- 
sophical newspaper paragraph that the first requisite 



380 STOEIES. 

of a good traveller is coolness; so I rose above the 
condition of worrying, and amused myself with a 
study of the faces and manners of my fellow-pas- 
sengers. 

In the seat before me was a happy young mother 
with her baby, which, notwithstanding the early hour 
at which it must have been taken from its cradle, 
never once intruded its voice upon the attention of 
its elders, but slept and smiled with wonderful amia- 
bihty. Behind me were a couple on easy flirtation 
terms, who took no pains to keej^ their conversation 
from my ears, and varied the tedium of the trip by 
the excitement of a bet of a pair of gloves as to 
whether the baby in front of them was a boy or a girl. 
Across the aisle was an old lady, who, I was pleased to 
perceive, asked the reticent conductor more questions 
than I did, and always had an inquiry ready to inter- 
cept his every transit through the car. And so the com- 
plement was made up of all the inevitable characters 
— so new to me in those days — whom my subsequent 
travelling experiences have taught me to look for in 
every railway journey. 

About half an hour before noon we arrived at the 
Boston station, and my heart had thrilled at the re- 
cognition of the plain shaft on Bunker Hill as we 
passed over the water to reach the city. I suffered 
myself to be captured by a hackman, and taken across 
the town to Haymarket Square, for the sake of get- 
ting my trunk there ; and I can remember to this day 
how strange looked the high brick walls, the brilliant 
shop-windows, the hurrying crowds that have since 
become such familiar objects, as I j^eered, half sick 
with loneliness but excited with the novelty of the 
scene, from the windows of the carriage. I think 
it all appeared more wonderful to me then, fresh 



MAEEYING A PICKPOCKET. 381 

from the country as I was, than a glimpse of Jecldo 
or Pekin woukl now. Even the people seemed like 
foreigners, as they rushed along with inexplicable haste 
close beside me ; and the signs fm^nished reading as 
interesting as a novel. 

This taste of the sights of the city, I suppose, 
made the quiet of the Maine station particularly 
tedious to me. I could not check my trunk until 
half an hour before the train would leave ; but I 
could leave it with entire safety in the baggage-room, 
my hackman told me, and I myself saw him deposit it 
there, and noted the spot. I ate my lunch — a sand- 
wich and a slice of sponge-cake — in the waiting-room ; 
and as I read the inscription, " Beware of Pickpockets," 
which hung by the ticket-office window, I remember 
mentally congratulating myself that I had put all my 
store of money, except enough for the needs of the 
journey, safely in my trunk. Ralph has told me since 
that that was the beginning of my follies, and the 
fruitful source of all my woes ; but I thought at the 
time it was a remarkable piece of womanly prudence. 
At least, it relieved me of my anxiety, as I resolved 
to spend the two hours at my command in rambling 
about the city ; and I set forth with a stout heart and 
eager anticipations of pleasure. 

I paused, however, at the threshold, and looked 
upon the noisy tumult of the square, thinking whether 
I had any special point to aim at. I knew but one per- 
son in the city, — a Mr. Churchill, who had paid a 
hunting and fishing visit to our village in the summer, 
had extended his stay far beyond his original purpose, 
had visited my little school, and had left his photo- 
graph in my keeping when he came, in a merry mood, 
to say good by. Decidedly, I should like to see Mr. 
Churchill ; but, decidedly, I would not go to his offi-ce 



382 STORIES. 

to call upon him. Perhaps I might meet him. I had 
noted the windows of Washington Street, as I rode 
through, as offering the most positive attractions ; so 
I determined to go there for my walk, and, if I saw 
Court Street by the w^ay, to look up and down the 
walls for the strip of board which Mr. Churchill had 
told me indicated his office there. 

A burly policemna gave me the right direction, Avith 
a courtesy and clearness which made me set down a 
mental credit-mark very near the maximmn standard 
of a hundred, as I used to grade my pupils at school, 
for the w^hole class to which he belonged. By dint of 
long waiting at the crossings till a wide gap should ap- 
pear in the endless processions of teams, and frequent 
questions when I found myself getting astray in the 
confusing labyrinths of a part of the city in which 
now, as a resident, I often get puzzled, I made my way 
to Washington Street, and speedily plunged into the 
delights of bookstore windows and millinery windows 
with an enjoyment only interrupted by inspections of 
my watch about once in ten minutes, in my nervous 
fear lest I should overstay my limit. I walked around 
the Old State House, and fixed, by a combined effort 
of memory and imagination, upon the very spot which 
must have been stained by the blood of the Boston 
Massacre, so familiar to my mind from frequent listening 
to parrot-like recitations of its history as coldly told in 
the school-books. I stopped a full minute to look at Mr. 
Whipple's revolving-sun, — now only a memory of the 
past, — until people trod on my skirts, and the express- 
men stopped to smile at my curiosity, as they trundled 
their bundles and boxes in and out of the office close by. 
Every little incident of that hour is photographed upon 
my mind, as the trifles often are that go before a great 
calamity or a serious fright j but it is not worth while 



MARRYING A PICKPOCKET. 383 

to recall them all here. I saw Mr. Churchill's gilt sign 
under a window on Court Street ; but I did not see 
his bright face under any one of the countless black 
hats which swei3t by me as I strolled u]) the street. 
At last it was one o'clock, and I thought at the next 
corner I would turn back, and so have plenty of time 
to reach the station. 

The window at which I had paused as I made this 
resolution was the most florid and the most persistent 
in its appeals to the public that I had seen. Its con- 
tents clamored for attention, with great placards in 
staring letters, "A Few More Left — only Seventy- 
five Cents," and equally alluring inscriptions, attached 
to yellow chains and lockets which, in my innocence, 
I should have fancied to be of the finest gold, had 
they thus not proclaimed their own baseness. Vases 
that looked like porcelain, statuettes that looked like 
bronze, chessmen that looked like ivory, trumpeted 
forth their inferior material by similar ostentatious 
announcements of cheapness. Strings of beads and 
toy tea-sets, cases of soap and packs of j^laying-cards, 
babies' rattles and old folks' spectacles, mingled in 
the heterogeneous assortment ; and little boys on the 
sidewalk thrust handbills into my fingers, to assure 
me that the entire stock was to be sold ofi* at an 
alarming sacrifice on account of removal. But it was 
none of those temptations which led me on to my fate 
and made me enter the shop. It was a paj^er doll that 
hung in the window, with her wardrobe beside her, all 
in a single sheet, ready for the cutting out, — just 
what would fill with unbounded delight the soul of 
little Susy Whiting, the one member of my deserted 
flock who had actually been moved to tears at the 
news of my going away. My heart seemed to be 
turned anew towards Susy by the chilly, unsympa^ 



384 STORIES. 

thizing rush of the throng which swept past me ; and 
when I thought how easily this addition to her scanty- 
family of rag-babies could be sent to her in a letter, I 
hurried in to secure it. 

The shop was so crowded — with women almost ex- 
clusively — that I made my way to the counter with 
difficulty; and I clutched my pocket-book tightly as 
the sight of a policeman at the door reminded me of 
the caution posted at the railroad station. The young 
women behind the counter were busy as bees, and 
I waited patiently fully five minutes for my turn. 

A sudden scream startled me ; and the lady stand- 
ing next me turned round, all flushed and half frantic, 
with the exclamation : — 

" My money ! O, my money is gone ! " 

The attendant behind the counter, and all the cus- 
tomers in that part of the shop, crowded around with 
eager inquiries ; and the policeman was there in an 
instant, j^utting quick, curt questions. There seemed 
no prospect of my getting immediate attention for 
the little purchase I contemplated ; and, thinking at 
the moment only of the lapse of time and the distance 
through strange streets to the station, I turned to 
go without Susy's paper doll, — committing thereby, 
my acute husband informs me, blunder number two. 

" Please wait a minute, miss," said the blue-coated 
officer. "The lady has only missed her money a 
minute ; it may not have got out of the store. Just 
keep that door shut, will you," — this to another man 
who had joined him. 

" I assure you, sir," said I, committing I know not 
how serious an error in my amazement and consterna- 
tion, " I am on my way to a train." 

"Going to a train, eh?" rejoined the policeman, 
with a perceptible diminution in the tone of respect 



MARRYING A PICKPOCKET. 385 

he had used at first ; " seems to me I have heard just 
such a story before. Do you thmk you can tell who 
took it, ma'am ? " 

The lady who had lost the money — rather an 
elderly j^erson, with sharp, unattractive features — 
seemed greatly flustered by the incident. 

" O dear, O dear, no such thing ever happened to 
me before," said she, talking at telegraj^h sjDeed, and at 
intervals thrusting her hand again and again into the 
depths of her pocket, as if the thief might have left a 
glove there, or as if she expected her purse to reai:>i3ear 
by magic. " I had it but a moment ago. It must have 
been this woman who stood next me." 

Full of wrath and bewilderment as I was at this 
abominable accusation, the tears did not come to my 
eyes as they usually do at moments of excitement. I 
seemed rather dazed and stunned by the interruj^tion 
to my sight-seeing, and perhaps I looked calm out- 
wardly to the group who were scrutinizing my fea- 
tures as if I w^ere already on exhibition in some 
rogues' gallery. 

" You will have to be examined, ma'am," said the 
policeman. " If you will step to the rear of the store, 
it will only take a second. You will please come 
also," — to the lady whose loss had occasioned my 
misfortune, — "I may want to take your name and 
address." 

" I am entirely willing," said I, quite rejoiced at a 
suggestion which promised my immediate exculpation ; 
" only pray do not detain me longer than is ne- 
cessary." 

But as I moved to follow in the direction indicated, 
something fell to the floor. It was a morocco pocket- 
book. Haifa dozen hands hastened to pick it up. 

" You see you have merely dropped your money," 

17 T 



386 STOEIES. 

said I to my feminine accuser, already beginning to 
assume the haughtiness of vindicated innocence. 

" Not a bit of it," said Officer Knox. (I was des- 
tined to learn his name soon after.) " There is not a 
cent of money in this wallet. How much is there 
missing, Mrs. ? " 

"Mrs. James Proctor is my name, and I live in 
Ames Place. There was sixty dollars in the wallet, 
and some small silver, and a gold eagle." 

" I shall feel it necessary to take you to the station," 
said the policeman, addressing me again. " There is 
no call to search you here. You see, ma'am," turning 
to Mrs. Proctor again, " it is not probable she has the 
money on her. They work in pairs, generally, and 
when this one took your money she passed it directly 
to her pal, who would make off with it at once. I 
saw a woman pass out rather hastily, just before you 
sung out." 

" This is too much," I exclaimed, gathering courage 
for one desperate effort. "I never saw the woman 
who went out, but I presume she was the thief She 
must have dropped the wallet into my skirts. My 
name is Mary Gilman ; I am a school-teacher from 
the country, and a stranger here. Your mistake will 
make me lose my train." 

The officer's face showed no more sign of attention 
to my remonstrance than did the bright buttons on 
his coat. 

" Will you be so good as to come to the station in 
half an hour," said he to Mrs. Proctor. " You will 
merely have to state the case to the captain of the 
district." 

" You see it is your duty to the community, ma'am," 
put in another of the group of ladies who clustered 
around us : " if you have no chance of getting your 



MARRYING A PICKPOCKET. 387 

money back, you should feel obliged to bring the thief 
to justice for the security of the rest of us." 

Mrs. Proctor wavered. Abstract justice seemed a 
very trivial thing to her by the side of her sixty 
dollars. 

" It is by no means certain that the money is gone 
beyond recovery yet," said Officer Knox, reassuring 
her. " When this woman is fairly frightened by seeing 
she is going to be dealt with, she will be very likely to 
oifer terms, and put you in the way of getting it all 
back again. It is more often done so than to bring 
the case into court." 

So to the habit of bargaining with crime, which 
was rife even then, but which the newspajDers have 
only lately begun to talk about, I owed the persist- 
ence of my accuser. 

"I will come there directly," she said to the police- 
man ; " and if the money is got back," in a whisper, 
"the gold eagle shall be yours for your energy in 
assisting me." 

In the midst of the tumult of thoughts and emotions 
suggested by my dreadful j^redicament, I remember 
thinking that the real pickj^ocket they took me for 
was not a whit worse morally than these honest 
people conspiring for their common advantage. But 
Mr. Knox, in his imposing uniform, probably cared 
little for my good or ill opinion. He offered me his 
arm, with the same politeness which I had seen 
his comrades of the force showing to the ladies they 
escorted across the snowy street. "Not that, at 
least," said I ; " let - me walk before you or behind 
you ; you need not fear my running away." For I 
had made up my mind that Officer Knox was too 
stupid to be reasoned with to advantage. " Surely," 
thought I, " the captain he speaks of will have pene- 



388 STORIES. 

tration enough to see that his captive is not a thief. 
A word of explanation in an unprejudiced ear will at 
once release me from this ridiculous dilemma. It 
must be that, after twenty odd years of staid New 
England life, I have enough of manifest respectability 
about me to satisfy a captain of police." So I walked 
rapidly through the streets, in the direction which my 
captor indicated, he following close behind me, with 
an ajoparent unconsciousness of my presence for which 
I was deeply thankful. He was sufficiently near, at 
the corner of every intersecting street, to show me 
that there was no hope of escape by sudden flight, if 
I had contemplated such a wild manoeuvre; and in 
the midst of all my crowded thoughts as to the 
methods to be taken to make my honesty clear, there 
hummed over and over again in my mind, like the 
burden of some old song, the words, " Driven like a 
lamb to the slaughter, — driven hke a lamb to the 
slaughter." 

"Here we are," in the gruff voice of my guide, in- 
terrupted my musings, and scattered my half-formed 
plans and carefully elaborated sentences of exjjlana- 
tion into chaos again. We ascended a short flight of 
steps, and entered a room wainscoted to the ceiling, 
in which a row of staves, caps, and blue coats, hung 
against the wall, suggested to my distempered fancy 
the night policemen here suspended to take their rest 
in seemly erectness and uniformity. Behind a wooden 
railing sat a tall, burly man with a prodigious length 
of preternaturally black beard, which he caressed and 
smoothed, with a fat, white, ringed hand, unceasingly 
during my whole acquaintance with him. 

"Ah, Knox, what now?" said this personage, look- 
ing through me at the wall behind, with entire ease 
and overwhelming dignity. 



MARRYING A PICKPOCKET. 389 

"Big thing, Cap," said my policeman, entirely fore- 
stalling my purj^ose of stating my own case before an 
unprejudiced mind. " Party caught picking a pocket 
in a store on my beat. Pal, dressed in black like this 
one, made off with the plunder before I could lay 
hands on her. Empty wallet thrown away by this 
one w^hen I proposed to search her. Lady coming 
here presently to identify her. Sixty dollars in bills 
gone, and some small silver." 

" O most discreet schemer," thought I, with all my 
horror at this succinct statement, " to avoid all men- 
tion of your promised eagle ! " 

" If you please, sir," I began, when the curtain of 
beard and mustache parted, ever so slightly, with the 
question, " Seen her before, Knox ? " 

" Had my eye on her for several days. Cap. Always 
keej^s her veil down, but know her by her general rig 
and build. Think she is lately from New York." 

(Ralph says it is a part of the professional police 
etiquette to have known everybody before. But I 
thought at the time it was a deliberate lie.) 

" "Will you hear me a moment, sir ? " said I, with a 
forced calmness that was anything but real, and I 
presume deceived nobody. " This is all a most silly 
mistake. I am a school-teacher, never in the city till 
to-day in my life, and going to Maine this afternoon. 
I know no more of this robbery than you do." 

"We always take down these things in order, 
ma'am," said the serene official, opening a huge 
ledger, and substituting his left hand for his right 
in the task of stroking his flowing whiskers, while 
he picked up a stumpy pen. " What is your name ? " 

" Mary Oilman." 

"Age?" 

I told him. 



390 STORIES. 

"Where bom?" 

" Massachusetts." 

" Not a person of color, I see," murmured the cap- 
taiu, as he jotted down something in each of the 
ruled-off columns. " Charge, picking a pocket, you 
say. Officer Knox. Comjolainant ? " 

"Mrs. Proctor, of Ames Place," said Mr. Knox, 
promptly. 

"Now, ma'am, probably it would be pleasanter for 
you to empty your own pockets," said the superior 
officer, passing both hands alternately down his sujDcrb 
cascade of whisker, and gazing lovingly at the scin- 
tillations of a diamond thus set off to advantage. 
" You can pass the things right over to this desk ; and 
if there is anything more you want to say, I '11 hear 
it." 

I began to detest this man, imperturbable, glassy, 
self-satisfied as he was, more than I did his blunder- 
ing, impulsive subordinate. But there was nothing to 
do but to obey him. I took from my pocket my 
wallet, my handkerchief, the key to my trunk, with 
its long, blue ribbon, my little bottle of ammonia. 

" There is very little more to say than I have al- 
ready told you. I left my home, fifty miles from here, 
this morning, on my way to Maine, where I have a 
school engaged. I left my trunk at the station, and 
was merely taking an hour's walk before the train 
should leave, when this man pounced upon me. The 
pocket-book must have been dropped in a fold of my 
skirt by the thief as she left the store. 

" Have you any friends in Boston ? " 

I hesitated. I need not set down all the reasons 
why I did not desire, in my present plight, to send a 
policeman to Mr, Churchill. Had I liked him less, or 
known him better, I might have done it earlier. But 



MARRYING A PICKPOCKET. 391 

I could not yet believe my condition so desperate as 
to require this remedy. 

" There is nobody whom I wish to disturb about 
this matter." 

" You will see, Mr. Knox, more and more, the longer 
you remain in the force," proceeded the captain, most 
deliberately, — the white hand sailing down the black 
ripples more luxuriously than ever, — " you will see 
how incapable these people are of making up a toler- 
able story. Let them be ever so smart in their reg- 
ular line of business, their lies are always clumsy." I 
clutched the railing involuntarily, but the men re- 
garded me no more than they did their spectral com- 
rades on the pegs in the wall. " Now, this party has 
done very well, — very well, indeed. But just look 
at it. She is on her way to Maine to stay several 
months, and she has only six dollars in her pocket- 
book, — barely enough for a ticket. She has left her 
trunk at the depot, but she has not provided herself 
with a baggage check. She is out for a walk only, 
and you catch her a mile from the depot in a crowded 
store. She hangs fire when I ask for her Boston 
acquaintance. It seems as if any one ought to have 
done better, Knox ; but they are all the same. You 
can put her in No. 9, Knox. Your j^roperty will be 
quite safe, Mary Oilman, in this drawer." The cap- 
tain unfolded a copy of the " Herald," which a boy 
had just brought, and put his polished boots on the 
railing. 

I am afraid I exhibit myself in the eyes of my chil- 
dren as having been a girl of very little sj^irit. I did 
not audibly resent the police captain's very logical and 
professional analysis of my folly and falsehood. If I 
thought anything at all in the bewilderment of the 
hour, it was that dignity on my part would impress 



392 STORIES. 

my persecutors more than any display of wrath. But 
my dignity was thrown away. Officer Knox took 
down a key from a row of them that hung just inside 
the railing, and, in obedience to his gesture, I followed 
him from the room to the door of the cell desi^rnated 
for me. One glance at its gratings, its chilly floor, its 
neat, narrow bunk, dispelled all my fastidiousness as 
to means of rescue. 

"Will you go for me," said I, "to Mr. R H. 
Churchill's office, in Court Street, and ask him to 
come to me for a moment ? " 

" Now you begin to talk," replied my custodian. "I 
am glad you have had the sense to give up that school- 
teacher story at last. But Churchill has got mostly 
beyond this branch of business. I haven't seen him 
in our court for a year or more." 

" If you will speak to him as I ask you, I think he 
will come to see me." 

" "Well, perhaps, if it is an old client, he will make 
an exception in your favor and defend the case. Shall 
I tell him the same name you gave here ? " 

I hesitated as:ain. I saw the honest officer chuckle 
at my pause for reflection, as a new proof of his own 
sagacity. But should I present myself to Mr. Churchill 
in such distorted character as this officer might give 
me ? It seemed better to tell him the Avhole story 
myself " You need not give him my name at all," 
said I: "simply say that a lady w^hom he knows 
wishes to see him at the station on very pressing busi- 
ness, — not as a lawyer, but as a friend." 

" Just as you please," said Officer Knox ; and then 
the door swung into its place, the great key was 
turned, and I was left alone. There was no window, 
but a sort of twilight came into the cell through the 
door. I threw ofi" my bonnet, pressed my hands to my 



MARRYING A PICKPOCKET. 393 

brows, and sat on the edge of the little berth to think. 
If I had a volume at my disposal, I could fill it all in 
telling what I thought in the few moments I spent in 
this way. I remembered shutting little Freddy Lee 
in the wood-closet of the school-room a week before, 
because I could not find it in my heart to give the 
slender boy a severer punishment, and how pale he 
looked when I released him. I tried to remember 
what sentence was given to picki^ockets, and where 
was the prison to which they w^ere sent. I wondered 
whether judges and juries looked at innocent peoj^le 
through such spectatcles as blinded the eyes of the 
policemen. I wondered where the guilty woman was 
with Mrs. Proctor's money. And as memory and con- 
jecture were thus busy confusing each other in their 
eagerness, the door oj^ened again, and the hideously 
familiar face and buttons of the patrol gleamed before 
my eyes in the passnge-way. 

" Sorry to say Mr. Churchill is not in his office. 
May not be back to-day ; and his boy says he is going 
for a visit to the country to-morrow, to be gone a 
week." 

This news seemed hardly more than a fi-esh drop in 
the full bucket of my despair. I felt relief rather than 
additional woe when Officer Knox continued : " Mrs. 
Proctor is here. She is going away to-morrow, too, 
and if she is to appear in court it must be this after- 
noon. So, as the court happens to be in session, I will 
take you right over, and have this tiling disposed of 
at once. It can't make any difference to you anyway, 
as I see." 

" By all means, let us have it over as soon as pos- 
sible," said I, tying on my bonnet again with trembling 
fingers. 

" Nothing you want to say to me before you go in, 
17* 



394 STORIES. 

I suppose," said the officer, looking at me tlirougli 
eyes half closed. 

" Nothing but to thank you for doing my errand." 

" O, very well, I like your pluck," he replied. " You 
know you won't have another chance to make an 
advantageous arrangement for getting the money 
back." 

I said nothing in reply to this further hint ; and the 
agent of the law stalked below me into the outer room 
again. I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Proctor leaving it 
for the court-house. The captain had lighted a cigar ; 
but the task of watching its fumes left his hands and 
beard still free for their endearments. He did not 
once look at me as I stood waiting before him, while 
Mr. Knox gathered up my possessions from the 
drawer and thrust them into his own capacious 
pocket. Then we left the captain, and I never saw 
him more. 

I could not have told whether my guide and I had 
walked a mile or two rods when our destination was 
reached. All was a blur before my eyes. Streets and 
alleys, stairs and passage-ways, were all alike to my 
dulled consciousness, until I found myself in a sort of 
pit, so walled and railed about that I could see nothing 
but the ceiling overhead ; while I knew from the 
murmurs which reached my ears that there was a 
room full of people just outside the barrier, before 
whom I was destined to appear by ascending a short 
flight of steps. At the head of these steps stood a 
man all rags and tatters, volubly explaining to listen- 
ers outside some charge against himself, but SjDeaking 
in a brogue so rich that I thought at first he used a 
foreign tongue. Officer Knox had disappeared, but 
presently I saw his face over the railing above, and he 
seemed to whisper to me, " You come next." Then 



MARRYING A PICKPOCKET. 395 

the oration of my ragged comrade in misfortune came 
to a pause, as I thought for want of breath ; but a 
period was put to it by the announcement in a clear 
voice, I could not see from whom, "Four months, House 
of Industry"; and the fellow, his face grinning as if 
rather pleased than otherwise at his fate, turned and 
descended the steps to a seat by my side. 

The summons to myself, which I had braced myself 
to answer bravely, did not follow. There seemed, as 
well as I could judge from the murmur that reached 
me, to be some unusual interruption in the proceed- 
ings of the court. One or two people came and 
peeped at me curiously over the walls of my den, and 
disappeared again. Presently I thought I heard my 
own name, and in a voice that sent a great thrill of 
delight to my heart. The shrinking horror at the 
idea of being seen which had before beset me de- 
parted ; conquered by my own curiosity, I crept 
cautiously up the steps until I could just see over 
the wooden barrier at the to2:>. There, talking eagerly 
with a gray-haired man who occupied the most ele- 
vated seat in the room, was indeed Mr. Churchill. In 
his hand was my pocket-book, and the little photo- 
graph of himself that he had given me, and which had 
lain hitherto undisturbed in one of the com2:)artments 
of the wallet. Close by stood Officer Knox, perplexity 
and chagrin chasing each other over his countenance. 
Manifestly my champion had arisen, and was fighting 
my battle in his own way, without having notified me 
of his interference. As I looked, Mr. Knox stepped 
gingerly across the room and consulted gloomily with 
Mrs. Proctor, who sat opposite me. The judge made 
a gesture of approval, and fell back into his cushioned 
chair. Mr. Churchill turned towards me, discovered 
my eyes watching him over the railing, and in a 



396 STORIES. 

moment had snapped back the bolt of the little 
door, descended the steps, and grasped my hands. 

I had no eloquent speech ready for hhn, like the res- 
cued heroines of the novels. I only said, "O Mr. 
Churchill!" 

" Not a word, Mary Gilman, till we are out of this 
hole." 

He opened the door by which I had been ushered in, 
and while the stentorian voice of some clerk above us 
declared the court adjourned, he hurried me out, and, 
putting my arm in his, led me at breathless speed 
through the building and the street, in at another 
door and up stairs again, seating me at last in an easy- 
chair in his office. 

" Tommy," he said, to an urchin disturbed from a 
luxurious nap by this movement, " go to the post-office 
and wait until the mail is assorted." 

Tommy was off at the word ; and then Mr. Churchill, 
pacing up and down the room as he spoke, relieved 
his mind in his fashion. 

" Upon my word, Miss Gilman, this is a charming 
scrape I find you in. Don't speak a word. You 
must be half frightened to death by your adven- 
ture. Let me tell you how I discovered you, while 
you cool down, and then you can tell me what I do 
not already know of your story. Most accidental 
thing in the world that I happened into that court- 
room. Have n't been inside the door before for 
a year. I sauntered in, casually took up some 
prisoner's property on the desk, and was amazed 
by the discovery of your name in the pocket-book, 
and this most flattering portrait to assure me it 
was no other Mary Gilman but yourself that owned 
it. Of course, my first thought was that your 
pocket had been picked. But when I went with my 



MARRYING A PICKPOCKET. 397 

inquiries to the policeman, I found that, by some in- 
credibly stupid blunder, he had arrested yourself in 
the place of some cunning thief I thought it not 
worth while to disturb you until I had relieved you of 
all embarrassment ; and by giving my personal assur- 
ance of your entire superiority to any such suspicion, 
I obtained a reprimand for Mr. Policeman, and your 
immediate release on his withdrawal of the charge 
against you." 

At this moment there was a knock at the door, and 
Officer Knox appeared. His haughty aspect had 
vanished, and he seemed like the convicted thief in 
the presence of his judge. 

" Beg pardon, sir," he began, " I merely brought 
Miss Oilman's key and things, that were left on the 
court-room table. I hope. Miss, that you will not 
bear malice against me for this unlucky mistake. We 
have to be very suspicious in our line, and to doubt 
appearances ; and that old woman was so sure it was 
you. She says now she remembers her pocket was 
on the other side, and that it was the woman who 
went out before she spoke that stood next her on the 
right." 

" Well, well, sir," said Mr. Churchill, almost fiercely, 
" bother us no more about it." 

The forgiveness I was about to ofier to the contrite 
officer was prevented by his abruj)t departure upon 
this admonition. 

" If it were not for the loss of my train, I do not 
think I should regret the whole affiiir very deeply," 
said I. "It will be something to laugh about for a 
lifetime, when I have got over the shock of fright and 
annoyance." 

" What train have you lost, pray, and where are 
you bound ? " inquired Mr. Churchill. 



398 STORIES. 

I told him as succinctly as I could of my destina- 
tion, and the plan and purpose of my journey. 

" By Jupiter ! Miss Gilman, you have time enough 
for the train yet. It is only twenty minutes of three 
and we can get to the station in four minutes. Will 
you try it ? " 

Of course I was ready, though unable at first to be- 
lieve that events which had seemed so long had really 
passed so quickly. We went through the streets at a 
pace I never had ventured upon in the country, but not 
much faster than the city habit. Mr. Churchill found 
and checked my trunk, while I secured a seat on the 
train. I noticed that he did not accept my words of 
inadequate gratitude and good by as final ; but I did 
not suspect that he was to accompany me, till he took 
the seat by my side as the cars left the station. 

" You are too kind, Mr. Churchill," said I : " you 
must not undertake this journey on my account, es- 
pecially if, as I heard from your office when I sent to 
you, you are going to-morrow into the country." 

" I have given up that trip," replied the gentleman, 
very placidly. " Since I decided to make it the rural 
districts have lost their charm for me." 

I am not going to set down all the conversation of 
that railway ride for my children to read, and perhaps 
I may as well stop here as anywhere. Mr. Churchill 
escorted me to my journey's end, and returned to 
Boston by the night train. The story I proposed to 
tell is told ; and the children know just how much 
and how little their father means when he tells them 
jocosely about marrying a pickpocket. They are both 
too sensible to allow it to prejudice them against the 
sagacity of policemen in general ; for they both re- 
member how when Edgar tumbled into the Frog 
.Pond last summer, and Belle could do nothing but 



MARKYING A PICKPOCKET. 399 

scream, Officer Knox, now a veteran and most efficient 
member of the force, popped up most opportunely to 
the rescue ; and they have not forgotten what a whistle 
of delight he gave when the dripping boy — whom he 
had wrapped in his own coat — told him he was to be 
carried to his father's, Mr. Ralph Churchill's, on the 
other side of the Public Garden. Mr. Knox took that 
occasion to renew his apologies, interrupted ten years 
before, for a blunder made when he was new to his 
work ; and I learned from him then that Mrs. Proctor 
never recovered her money. 



THE END. 



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